


Pillars of Sand

by AkaiTsume



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Drama, M/M, Modern AU, Mystery, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkaiTsume/pseuds/AkaiTsume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dystopian AU. Daryl has been sentenced to a life of indentured servitude for crimes he didn’t even commit. When he stands on that auction block, he assumes that when he steps down, he’ll either be dead or a Walker. Either would be better than being a slave.</p><p>Of course, Daryl doesn’t get to make choices anymore…or so he thinks until he meets the stoic Lord Grimes, who tries to convince him otherwise.</p><p>No matter what anyone says, he doesn’t trust that nobleman any farther than he could throw him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vertigo

Daryl’s fingers clenched and released slowly, his heart pounding in impotent fury. The dark gray shackles around his wrists bit into the skin, but he couldn’t help slowly twisting his bound arms. Other prisoners shuffled quietly behind him, and a balding man to his right stared despondently at the far wall. Light pooled into their holding pen from the stage before them, where some other poor soul was being sold off. The pen reeked of sweat, dirt, and misery.

A guard walked leisurely past their cage, paused, and grinned darkly. He reached out with his nightstick and banged it between the bars near a shrunken, hollow woman who immediately cowered away from him. The guard laughed.

“You assholes should be smiling,” he boasted. “You’re the lucky ones. You get bought, you get to live.”

None of the prisoners replied. Daryl’s jaw clenched. Lucky, he called it. Lucky to be sold off as property to some rich asshole who had the legal right to do whatever he wanted to them, up to and including murdering them. _Lucky_.

The guard’s smile faded when none of the prisoners responded, and a foul look settled upon his bloated face. He spat at the woman.

“It’s better than you shits deserve,” he hissed viciously. “Fucking parasites, dragging society down. _Criminals_. You should all be shot, and good riddance to you.”

 _I’ll take that over fucking **slavery** ,_ Daryl mused darkly. The guard withdrew his night stick and stuck it back into his belt, stalking away. Daryl narrowed his eyes. _Too bad the fucker didn’t stick that thing over here by me. I would’ve grabbed it in a heartbeat._

But that was part of the problem. Out of the twenty or so people in the pen, only Daryl was still angry, still fumed over the bullshit laws that had landed him in this pen in the first place. The others had given up, one by one, resigning themselves to their fates without even a whimper. They all knew what horrible lives awaited them, and they’d unanimously decided to check out early. Daryl’s fists clenched once more, and this time, he let them stay that way. He wouldn’t check out. He wouldn’t give in. If they wanted him to be a good little pet, they’d have to Pacify him first.

He wasn’t even supposed to _be_ here. Merle was the one who’d robbed those stores, and Merle was the one who’d beaten that black man half to death. When the police came looking and couldn’t find his brother, they decided to snatch up Daryl instead, invoking the “familial atonement” law that their country loved so fucking much. Any and all immediate family members could be punished for a crime committed by their relatives, even if they’d had nothing to do with it. Politicians claimed that it acted as a deterrent. After all, who would commit a crime, knowing that their family would pay for it, too?

Daryl snorted. As if Daryl’s well-being had ever factored into any of Merle’s decisions. Their father was long dead, may he rot in hell, and their mother had been committed to a mental facility over a decade ago. The only person left to punish in Merle’s stead was Daryl, and since he’d refused to rat out his brother during questioning—even if he’d known where the asshole was, there was no way he’d ever turn his back on family like that, and they’d probably both have ended up in irons anyway—here he was, ready to be sold to the highest bidder.

Assuming anyone bid on him at all. If they didn’t, the judge presiding over the auction would change his sentence from “life indenture” to death on the grounds that Daryl was clearly of no use to society.

Daryl hoped nobody bid on him.

“I WON’T! I WON’T! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”

A ruckus spontaneously broke out on stage, snapping Daryl out of his thoughts. The man on the auction block had started screaming, swinging his bound wrists around. The guard from before rushed towards the stage, followed closely by several cronies. The prisoner kept screaming, his eyes bulging and face turning red. He swung clumsily at the auctioneer, who backed away with a disgusted scowl on his face. The auctioneer waved a hand at the judge, who was seated behind a dais at the back of the stage. The judge, expression blank, nodded regally and pulled out a slender, black remote. As one, Daryl and the other caged prisoners tensed. The judge calmly pointed the remote at the flailing prisoner and pressed a series of numbers.

The prisoner’s reaction was immediate. He dropped to the ground and screamed, writhing and contorting in pain. Veins stood out on his throat and face. The guards backed away, forming an impassive ring around the man and blocking him partially from view. After a few seconds, the screams cut off. Daryl’s knuckles turned white with tension as he stared as the stage. The guards finally relaxed, stepping away from the fallen prisoner and moving back to their posts. Nobody moved to help the man on the floor.

Daryl didn’t blame them. The man stared up at the rusted rafters of the courthouse, irises bleached gray. Silently, mechanically, the prisoner sat up, paused, and clumsily gained his feet. At a mumbled word from the auctioneer, he stepped back up onto the platform and stared sightlessly into the crowd.

He’d been Pacified.

The other prisoners behind Daryl shrank away from the front of the pen, huddling together in fear. Daryl stood his ground, jaw tight and shoulders squared. He didn’t plan on kowtowing to whichever fucktard bought him, and like hell was he going to look away from his fate. He would own this for however long they left him with a mind. A woman behind him whispered.

“Walker…”

At that word, the balding man to Daryl’s right began moaning quietly, but his vacant expression didn’t change. Daryl glared at him. These assholes were scared of being Pacified, of being turned into Walkers, as the lower classes called them? Idiots shouldn’t be afraid of having their minds stripped from them. It was more or less the same as being dead. It was being _awake_ and _aware_ that was fucking terrifying.

The sound of a gavel falling dragged Daryl’s attention back to the stage. The Walker was tugged down off the platform, and he lumbered mindlessly off into the wings on the other end of the stage. Daryl had no idea if he’d been sold or not, and honestly, he didn’t give a fuck. Walkers had no problems anymore.

The judge idly shuffled through the papers on the dais, then looked up with a bored expression.

“The next lot is number 1842, Daryl Dixon,” he called loudly.

Daryl took a deep, steadying breath, ignoring the stench that filled his nostrils. The guard came over to the cage, looked him in the eye, and unlocked the door.

“No funny business, asshole,” the guard snarled. Daryl’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. He strode confidently out of the cage, then paused obediently as the guard swung the door shut behind him and locked it once more. Daryl could hear the other prisoners shifting, and one started weeping quietly, but he pushed them out of his mind. Anger coursed through him, burning behind his sweaty palms in his still-clenched fists. Before the guard could shove him towards the stage, Daryl slowly walked out into the light. The heat from the lamps at the front edge of the stage made him break out in a fresh sweat, slicking his bare chest and legs. Sawdust that had been spread on the floor swirled up and clung to his feet and calves. He glanced briefly at the old, dark stains beneath the sawdust on the smooth wooden floor.

 _At least a few people fought back_ , he thought grimly.

Without prompting, Daryl stepped up onto the platform and glared through the lights into the crowd. Wealthy and well-to-do folks milled around, sipping jovially on drinks dripping with condensation and clinking with ice. Some of the wealthiest, lords and ladies, were being fanned gently by their own slaves. From this distance, Daryl couldn’t tell if the slaves were Walkers or contractors—indentured servants whose contracts had been purchased. Somehow, he doubted any of them were actually hired help.

Daryl resisted the urge to swallow hard to soothe his parched throat or to try and tug at the humiliatingly revealing loincloth they’d supplied him with. The sad, brown excuse for underwear hid practically nothing. His cheeks were burning, but it was suppressed fury causing it, not embarrassment.

Behind him, the judge cleared his throat. “Lot 1842 has been charged with robbery, battery, and attempted manslaughter under the familial atonement clause of Article 52.3.3 of the Georgian Code of Law. The perpetrator was his brother, Merle Dixon. In light of their close familial ties and time spent together, I hereby sentence Mr. Dixon to be punished to the full extent of the law for his brother’s crimes. The preliminary sentence is life indenture. Auctioneer, you may proceed.”

The auctioneer, a burly man wearing a thick, sleeveless leather jerkin, grinned.

“Well, folks, what we have here today is a man in his prime, used to the backwoods life and hard labor.” He swung a pointing stick at Daryl and slapped him on the arm. Daryl ground his teeth, but he held his peace. “Just look at these arms, ladies and gentlemen! This man would have no problem doing some heavy lifting.” He struck Daryl’s legs next. “You don’t get legs like these without stamina. Consider him an all-purpose asset! Can I start the bidding at twenty credits?”

The crowd eyed him, but none of those pasty-faced assholes lifted a finger to bid. The auctioneer shook his head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, don’t let him go to waste! After all, he’s good for more than just yard work.” When the auctioneer waggled his eyebrows, Daryl had to take several slow, deep breaths to keep from leaping forward and strangling him. _Not yet, not yet._ “This man has been untried, so he’s yours to break in as you choose! Do I hear fifteen credits?”

A woman near the stage got a glint in her eye as she looked Daryl over. His skin crawled. She delicately lifted a hand, but before she could speak, Daryl cut in.

“I got somethin’ to say,” he announced loudly. Suddenly, he had the full attention of the entire room, and he could feel their gazes prickling his skin. The auctioneer glanced at him anxiously, eyes narrowing. “If you folks want to buy me, that’s your right, according to this fucked up government we have. But you know what I think?”

“That’s enough out of you,” the auctioneer warned, but Daryl ignored him.

“You’re all fucking _monsters_ ,” Daryl spat. “Sitting there in your pretty fucking mansions, fucking your pretty fucking slaves. We’re not the ones who should be shot, _you fuckers are_. And if any one of you has the _balls_ to come near me, _I’LL TEAR YOUR FUCKING ARMS OFF!_ ”

He could see the guards rushing towards him out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled grimly.

“FUCK you, FUCK your government, and FUCK this entire fucking COUNTRY!” he yelled, pent-up rage bursting out of him. When a guard reached out to him, he gripped one fist in the other and swung hard at the man’s face. He clocked the guard square in the temple, and the man dropped like a rock. Daryl snarled at the other guards and glared out into the crowd. “I hope you all _rot in hell!!_ ”

The auctioneer looked behind Daryl, most likely giving the judge his cue. Adrenaline pulsed through Daryl’s veins, and he rocked up onto the balls of his feet. Any second now, it would all be over. With any luck, Merle, that fucking asshole, was long gone, and they’d never find him. Daryl turned to stare challengingly at the judge. He’d force that man to look him in the fucking eyes as he stripped Daryl’s mind away. The judge looked down at him, clearly unimpressed, and lifted the remote.

“Two hundred credits!”

The call from the back of the room brought everything to a standstill. Slowly, Daryl turned back to the crowd, squinting as he tried to make out the fucking idiot who’d just bid on him. Whoever it was, he was deep in the shadows. Daryl scowled.

“Are you a fucking retard??” he yelled. “I told you that I’ll fuck you up, and I meant it!”

The auctioneer was also squinting out into the crowd, one hand raised to shade his eyes. Thrown off his game, the man sputtered.

“I…I have a bid for two hundred credits from…” Some cue in the back made the man inhale sharply and straighten. “From Lord Grimes. Do I hear two-oh-one?”

Silence. The other wealthy assholes looked at each other, and the auctioneer shifted his feet awkwardly. Daryl stared at his mystery buyer incredulously.

“Seriously, I will fucking cut you!” he called out. The auctioneer glanced nervously at the judge, who actually looked uncomfortable for a change, but the white-haired man slowly shook his head. The auctioneer swallowed and nodded.

“If…if I have no more bids…” He paused uneasily. “Then…lot 1842 is sold to Lord Richard Grimes for two hundred credits.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the judge struck his gavel. Shock froze Daryl to his spot on the platform. He’d deliberately acted out. He’d threatened the entire crowd. He’d punched a guard in the head. Why the fuck would somebody buy him for that much money? Daryl could’ve lived on two hundred credits for _two months_. He was so startled that when a guard tugged him off the platform, all he could do was stumble obediently behind him. The darkness of the wings on the far side of the stage swallowed him, and he jerked against his captor’s hold. The guard dragged him through a pair of double doors into a lit corridor that ran along the outside of the auction room.

“Wait…wait a fucking minute!” he blurted. The guard glared at him, but he didn’t reply. “I was supposed to…you were supposed to fucking Pacify me! Or kill me! What the fuck is wrong with you people?!”

The guard scowled. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and your new owner will Pacify you,” he shot back. Then the man glanced sideways at him with a faint leer. “Or maybe you won’t, and he won’t. I hear some people like their contractors… _feisty_.”

Daryl stomach turned. No. _No._ He would _not_ become a sex slave, not while he was alive and thinking. Adrenaline shot through him again, and he shoved at the guard, hoping to catch him off balance. This guard was no slouch, however, and he instinctively turned into Daryl’s push and swung him around by his cuffs. A sharp kick to Daryl’s stomach knocked the wind out of him, and he doubled over. Clenching his teeth, Daryl ignored his burning lungs and charged forward. The guard wrapped his beefy arms around him and squeezed, growling into Daryl’s ear.

“You little _fucker_ ,” the guard ground out. As Daryl struggled, kicking at the man’s knees, he looked over his shoulder at another man hovering nearby. “Andre, get a fucking remote—”

“Don’t you dare,” a calm, cool voice cut in.

Daryl stopped struggling for a moment, twisting in the guard’s arms to look at the newcomer. The guard actually dropped him and stepped back, hands raised.

“L-Lord Grimes. I’m sorry, but he started fighting me. I had to restrain him—”

“Then restrain him,” the man interrupted coldly. He stepped forward, light catching on his formal clothing. A deep red robe coat with gold trim was draped over a fitted black velvet vest and white shirt, a thin gold chain wrapping around his trim waist. The lord’s family crest, a big red and gold standard with a knight’s helmet on top, was embroidered on his left breast. Tight, black pants were tucked into a pair of tall, black leather boots that gleamed dully in the light. A tall black woman hovered behind him, a sword strapped to her back. Her eyes glinted.

Lord Grimes gave Daryl an assessing look, blue eyes devoid of emotion. His lips tightened behind his thick beard.

“Have they done anything to you?” he questioned brusquely.

Daryl stared at him. “You mean aside from fucking selling me to the highest bidder?”

“Yes.”

Daryl ground his teeth. “No, they ain’t done nothing to me. You looking to break me yourself? Didn’t want somebody else to get to me first?”

Instead of replying, Lord Grimes turned to the nervous guard. “I’ll take it from here. Tell Judge Avery that the credits will be wired to the court’s account before midnight.”

“Yes, milord. I will.” The guard’s head bobbed eagerly. Daryl watched him apprehensively, then turned to his new owner. What the hell kind of man was he? Why were the guards so nervous around him? He swallowed and shifted his weight.

What kind of man had just purchased the rest of Daryl’s life?

The man named Andre stepped closer to Lord Grimes, timidly holding out an embossed card.

“Would you like to have his code, Lord Grimes?” Andre asked quietly. Lord Grimes took the card, glanced at it, and wordlessly handed it off to the black woman. She stuffed it into the neck of her brown leather vest. Andre shifted his feet. “I assume you also have a remote at home?”

Lord Grimes said nothing, staring the man down with a gaze as cold as ice. Andre visibly wilted under the attention.

“I, ah. I’ll take that as a yes.” Andre wrung his hands, shoulders climbing towards his ears as Lord Grimes continued to glare at him. “Is there something else you needed tonight, milord?”

Lord Grimes held out a hand, palm up. When Andre merely stared at it like it was a snake ready to strike, the lord grimaced.

“The _key_ , if you don’t mind,” he demanded shortly. Andre flinched, then dug in his pockets.

“Of course! Of course, sir, I apologize. Here it is!” He withdrew the key to Daryl’s shackles and handed it over, smiling weakly. Lord Grimes closed his fingers around the metal key and turned to eye the guard at Daryl’s side. The burly man shrank back.

Lord Grimes stepped closer, gazing intently at the guard. “Let this be a warning to you. If you _ever_ lay a hand on my property again…” His voice dropped a register, eyes narrowing. “You’ll be the next person on the auction block. Is that clear?”

The guard’s head bobbed again, and he took a sharp step backwards. “Yes, milord! Understood. It’ll never happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” Lord Grimes turned back to Daryl. “We’re leaving.”

Daryl stared at him, flexing his fingers. “Are you an idiot? What the fuck makes you think I’m going anywhere with you? You should either Pacify me or kill me, because I fucking swear I’ll come after you.”

Lord Grimes gave him an unimpressed look. “I have no intention of ever Pacifying you,” he stated baldly. “And if your life is worth that little to you, you can go ahead and push Michonne into murdering you. Personally, I would find that to be a waste.”

Daryl glanced at the black woman—Michonne—and narrowed his eyes at Lord Grimes. “A waste of your precious money?”

Lord Grimes’ expression didn’t so much as flicker. “That money meant nothing to me. Your life, however, is something I consider valuable. It’s up to you to decide whether you want it to mean something.”

With that, the lord turned on his heel and began walking towards the front exit. Michonne put her hand on the hilt of her sword and flanked Daryl, wordlessly encouraging him to move forward. Daryl glared at her, then scowled at the lord’s back.

“I ain’t bending over for you, you sick fucker!” he roared. “You may own my contract, but you don’t fucking own _me!_ ”

Lord Grimes stopped dead in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting.

“ _GOOD._ ”

And with that baffling statement, the lord continued on his way. Eyebrows furrowed, Daryl followed along behind him with Michonne matching his stride. The three of them walked silently down the mostly empty hallway, the cool tiled floor slick beneath Daryl’s sawdust-encrusted feet. Every so often, a swell of noise burst out of the auction room. When they hit the lobby, the ceiling swooped up and away from them in an intricately carved marble dome. Quotes about freedom were interwoven with stone ivy that climbed the walls. A statue of the governor stood proudly at the center of the lobby, golden laurels at his massive feet. Daryl scowled.

 _A man of great honor_ , the statue’s plaque proclaimed. _He granted us freedom from criminals. Peace and prosperity. Virtue._

Daryl just barely refrained from spitting at it. The Governor was said to have a massive mansion staffed entirely by a legion of Walkers, and he’d pushed through countless new bills that encouraged Pacification for less and less serious crimes. Nobody knew what the guy’s problem was with the masses, but ever since he’d been elected, anyone who wasn’t part of the nobility had been walking lightly. The nobles, being the only class who weren’t implanted with Pacification chips at birth, had slightly less to fear. They couldn’t be sold, and they couldn’t be Pacified.

They sure as fuck could be killed, though.

Two armed guards were waiting at the front doors of the courthouse. The moment they spotted Lord Grimes, both men straightened to attention and pulled open the heavy oak doors. The lord paused and turned towards Daryl and Michonne, waiting patiently for the two of them to catch up. Once they had, he stepped out into the night.

Cool air hit Daryl’s bare, sweaty skin, causing goosebumps to instantly break out. He shivered involuntarily. Cars drove past at a leisurely pace, few drivers willing to risk a speeding violation right in front of the courthouse. At a nearby café, people were eating and drinking merrily, unconcerned that so many of their peers were being sold off as property a handful of yards away. After all, criminals deserved what happened to them, didn’t they? Daryl scowled.

 _Just wait until somebody you know does something stupid and lands **you** on the block,_ Daryl thought sourly.

A black sedan was waiting for them at the curb. An elderly white man was standing beside it, hands clasped in front of him. At the sight of Lord Grimes, the old man broke out with a grin. He nodded at Daryl.

“Is this him?” he asked eagerly. Daryl frowned. _“Him”?_

Lord Grimes nodded. “Yeah, Dale, this is him. Let’s just hurry up and get home, alright?”

Daryl’s eyes snapped towards the lord. His tone had warmed considerably when speaking to his servant, his southern drawl instantly becoming more pronounced. Where had the crisp, cool speech of the nobility gone? Dale moved to open the rear door for Lord Grimes, but Michonne stepped forward.

“Rick, are you sure about this?” she hissed. Daryl’s eyebrows flew up. _She’s addressing him informally??_

Lord Grimes glanced at Daryl, and to his shock, actually quirked his lips up into a half smile. “Michonne, I’m pretty sure that if he tries to kill me, he won’t get far before you stab him. Daryl, when was the last time they even fed you?”

Daryl blinked. _What the fuck is going on here?_ “Yesterday, I guess?”

“You gonna try and kill me when we get in the car, or can it wait until we get home?” Lord Grimes asked dryly.

Daryl wanted to protest that he’d take the fucker out as soon as possible, but…he had to admit, he was getting a little bit curious. Why did Lord Grimes look so _pleased_ when Daryl had stood up to him? Why did he let his servant speak so informally to him? And what the fuck did his driver mean when he asked if Daryl was “him”? Did Lord Grimes come to the courthouse specifically for Daryl? _Why?_

After a long moment, Daryl stiffly shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it can wait.”

“Great.” Lord Grimes climbed into the back seat and slid down to the other end. Michonne glared at Daryl, but she moved to the front passenger side door without protest. She slung the sword off her back and got into the car, her movements short and furious.

Daryl hesitated, but another cool gust of wind made him shiver again, and he stepped into the car. The black leather of the seat clung to his skin. Daryl shifted uncomfortably as Dale shut the door behind him, the sawdust on his skin prickling and itching. Michonne twisted in her seat, sword in her lap. She stared intently at Daryl, making him frown reflexively. Dale chuckled quietly to himself as he got into the car and started it up. They gently inched their way into the flowing traffic, and away they went.

The four of them sat in silence for several minutes. Daryl found himself staring suspiciously at Lord Grimes, who was gazing out the window with a contemplative look on his face. Street lights swept across his skin, periodically casting him in shadow. Michonne sat as still as a statue, eyes never wavering from Daryl. Just when Daryl felt the need to start fidgeting, Lord Grimes blinked and turned to face him.

“If you promise not to try and strangle me, I’ll remove those cuffs,” he offered in a low voice. Daryl dropped his eyes to the overly tight shackles, then looked back up at Lord Grimes’ light blue eyes. He wordlessly held out his wrists.

Michonne’s hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. “Rick.”

“Michonne,” Lord Grimes returned mildly. He gently took hold of Daryl’s cuffs and pushed the key into the lock. “It’s not that I trust you, just so you know. I just don’t think you’re stupid.”

Daryl glowered at him. “Fuck you.”

That half-smile flashed again. With a quiet click, the shackles popped open. Daryl pursed his lips to keep from sighing in relief, and he reflexively began to rub at his abused wrists. The skin was red and raw, blood welling up where the iron had broken his flesh. Lord Grimes eyed them, then wordlessly leaned forward to dig in a pouch attached to the back of Michonne’s seat. He pulled out a tube of ointment, hesitated, and extended it to Daryl. Daryl stared at him, then slowly took the tube. His fingers fumbled as he twisted the cap off and squirted some of the white cream into his palm. He gingerly rubbed the ointment into his skin, briefly closing his eyes at the soothing coolness that sank into him. When he opened his eyes, Lord Grimes was staring at him. Daryl scowled.

“What’s with you?” he asked defensively, leaning away from the other man. Lord Grimes shrugged, glanced at the tube of ointment, and then looked away. Daryl’s eyebrows furrowed. _Did he want to do this for me?_ he thought incredulously. _What the fuck is wrong with this guy?_ He shifted away from the lord, pressing his back up against the door. He asked suspiciously, “Why’d you want to sit with me in the back of the car, anyway?”

Lord Grimes glanced at him, eyebrows raised. He snorted inelegantly.

“Not for the reason you’re thinking right now, I can promise you that.” Shaking his head, the nobleman reached down and pulled a black drawstring back out from underneath Michonne’s seat. He tossed the bag lightly at Daryl, who caught it reflexively. “Here. I’m sure you’re sick of parading around in that underwear, and there’s no need for you to be nearly naked when we get to the manor.”

Daryl stared at the bag in his hands, then slowly opened it. He pulled out a towel, a soft gray t-shirt, and some sweatpants. When he dug around a bit, his fingers also caught on a pair of socks and slippers. He pulled them out, then looked questioningly at Lord Grimes. The other man shrugged.

“Didn’t know your shoe size.”

Baffled, Daryl used the towel to wipe off the sweat and sawdust and gingerly pulled on the clothing he’d been given. Nothing had Lord Grimes’ family crest on it, or any other indication that Daryl was property. He felt himself relaxing slightly, now that he was clothed like an actual human being. Frowning, he folded his arms.

“Why’re you doing this, man? Did you…” he hesitated because the idea was retarded, but he couldn’t help continuing, “…did you come to the courthouse just to buy _me_?”

Lord Grimes looked at him. “Yes.”

“ _Why?_ There ain’t nothin’ special about me.”

The nobleman looked him over, expression betraying nothing. His eyes rose to meet Daryl’s.

“A few reasons. One, your lot said that none of the crimes you were convicted for had anything to do with you.” Lord Grimes’s expression darkened. “That would almost be reason enough. Two, you’re young, and you’re fit.” When Daryl tensed, the lord rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’m not going to try anything with you. Even if I were that kind of guy, Michonne would gut me.”

“Damn straight,” the woman chimed in. Daryl shifted uncomfortably. He still couldn’t figure out why the psychotic woman was so _comfortable_ around the man.

“And three, you fought back. You still have some spirit left.” Something profoundly sad crossed Lord Grimes’ face, but it disappeared before Daryl could react to it. “Wasn’t sure you were worth it until that.”

Daryl placed his hands over his knees and clenched them into fists. “Those sound like shitty reasons to me.”

Instead of taking offense, Lord Grimes shrugged it off. “Well, they’re mine, and they’re the best you’re going to get for now.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. _Which means that you had another reason for buying me. What the fuck are you **up** to?_

Deciding to drop the topic for now, Daryl glared out the window. The city of Atlanta streamed by, lights and music gently caressing the car as they passed through. To look at it, you’d never know how fucked the majority of people were. Even in the dark, he could pick out Walkers running errands for their masters, their shuffling gaits distinctive from a distance. That had nearly been Daryl’s fate, and he wasn’t entirely certain if he was disappointed or not. Being brain-dead had to be a step up from being a living, suffering slave, right?

He sat in troubled silence for the rest of the ride out of the city.

***

The hour had grown late by the time the black sedan finally turned onto a narrow, paved road. Daryl straightened, glancing warily at the towering stone and wrought-iron fence that surrounded the lord’s home. A woman with long brown hair stood on a platform behind the wall to the side of a massive, heavy gate. When Dale waved at her through the windshield, she nodded shortly and gestured to somebody unseen with the massive gun in her hands. The gate slowly opened just enough to let the sedan through, and it swung shut the second all four tires hit the cobbled driveway. A large, bald black man waved at them from the ground, another large gun in his hands. Daryl took note of them briefly, but his attention was almost immediately captured by the colossal building in front of them.

Lord Grimes’ manor was less a house and more a gothic fortress, with towers and buttresses jutting up everywhere. The entire compound was surrounded by a stone fence that had a walkway running behind it, and other people wearing dark clothing could be seen moving along it. The manor itself had a façade of deep gray stone, and it loomed like a gargoyle over the courtyard they were pulling into. Daryl stared up at it apprehensively. Just how rich _was_ Lord Grimes? Daryl had spotted a large house or two over his lifetime, but this manor was easily the largest building he’d ever seen that wasn’t a skyscraper.

_No wonder he thought two hundred credits was nothing._

Dale pulled the car up to the grand entryway and came to a gentle stop. Michonne didn’t move, having not budged from her twisted position in her seat. Daryl just stared at the massive door leading into the house. Lord Grimes glanced at all three of them, rolled his eyes, and opened his door.

“C’mon. Let’s get you inside and get some food in you,” he said casually as he stepped out of the car. Michonne immediately followed suit. After a moment’s hesitation, Daryl opened his own door and stepped outside. Somehow, the manor seemed even larger once he was standing in front of it. It felt like the building itself was judging him, and Daryl was definitely coming up short. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the sensation and began to follow the lord up the smooth sandstone steps leading to the front door. Before he could get very far, however, Michonne came up beside him, grabbed his arm, and leaned in close.

“You try _anything_ to hurt Rick or our people, and I’ll cut your arms off,” she hissed. Daryl looked at her incredulously.

“Why the fuck do you call him Rick?” he shot back. “What’s wrong with you? Doesn’t he own you?”

Michonne simply glared at him in reply. She stormed up the steps to Lord Grimes, who was waiting by the door and watching them with open curiosity. She muttered something to him that Daryl couldn’t hear, and when the nobleman shook his head, she glanced back at Daryl, scowled, and moved to open the front door. Lord Grimes waved at Dale, who cheerfully drove off. Daryl slowly made his way up the steps, his slippers quietly scuffing against the stone. Lord Grimes waited until Daryl was beside him to go inside. Daryl followed, passing a clearly ticked off Michonne, who sullenly closed the door behind him.

The grand foyer expanded before him, gleaming with dark marble floors and polished wooden bannisters. The scent of polish and rosewood hit Daryl’s nose. Above him, a shimmering crystal chandelier dominated the ceiling, its sharp edges pointing down threateningly at him. Despite the late hour, Daryl could hear people moving through the hallways, chatting quietly as they performed whatever tasks they had been given. Lord Grimes glanced at Daryl, then tipped his head.

“Kitchen’s this way. Come on.” He looked back at Michonne. “We’ll be fine. Get some rest.”

The black woman glowered at him, but she didn’t protest. Daryl watched her climb the spiraling stairs to the side of the foyer. Lifting an eyebrow, he turned to Lord Grimes.

“I thought you said you didn’t trust me.”

“I don’t.” The nobleman moved to a table with a massive flower arrangement on top of it. He stuck his hand into the bouquet and almost immediately withdrew a tremendous, silver revolver. He nonchalantly checked the cylinder, slid it back in place, and lowered the gun, his thumb on the hammer. “But now I’m armed.”

Daryl looked at the gun, then brought his eyes back up to Lord Grimes’. He nodded. The lord gestured with the gun for Daryl to precede him. Shrugging mentally, Daryl did as he was asked. If the man wanted to kill him now on his nice, shiny floors, that wasn’t really a problem for Daryl, and he had a feeling that Lord Grimes had been sincere when he said that Daryl’s life was valuable to him. What that meant, exactly, Daryl had no fucking clue, but at least he wasn’t likely to get shot in the back.

Lord Grimes fell into step behind him and to his right, just out of grabbing range. The marble of the foyer gave way to wood and carpet as they walked into a hallway. The walls were painted an inoffensive shade of cream, dotted here and there by a framed portrait or landscape. Every other light in the hallway was turned off, filling the corridor with shadows. Before long, the scent of food began to waft into Daryl’s nose, and his stomach started growling. His shoulders tensed, waiting for mockery from the other man, but Lord Grimes said nothing. Light spilled into the hallway from a large opening in the wall, and Daryl could hear people talking amiably. After a quick glance at Lord Grimes, Daryl stepped through the entryway into a tremendous kitchen.

Several people looked up at him, pausing in their conversation. A young, blonde woman was perched on a pristine countertop, her legs swinging idly. Another woman with short brown hair leaned against the same counter, arms folded over her chest. An Asian man was seated at a huge wooden table next to a white-haired Caucasian man with a bushy beard. Lord Grimes stepped up beside him.

“Everyone, meet Daryl Dixon. He’ll be joining our little family here,” Lord Grimes told the group. He pointed at each person individually. “Daryl, meet Hershel, his daughters, Beth and Maggie, and Maggie’s husband, Glenn.”

“I like how I’m the afterthought,” Glenn piped up. He was nibbling on a piece of cheese. “It’s not like I contribute around here or anything.”

Lord Grimes rolled his eyes. “I appreciate everything you do, Glenn. Daryl, take my advice, and don’t play chess with him. Ever.”

“Spoilsport!”

The nobleman shook his head. “I’m tired, Daryl’s got to be tired, and he’s hungry. Will one of you fix him something to eat and show him to his room?”

Maggie straightened up, eyeing Daryl up and down. “I can handle that.”

“Thanks.” Lord Grimes looked at Daryl, an assessing glint in his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

With that, the nobleman left the bright kitchen. Daryl stared after him. He really, truly wasn’t sure what to think about all of this. What the fuck did Lord Grimes bring him here for?

While he thought, Maggie moved to the fridge and perused its contents. “You allergic to anything, Daryl?”

He started. “I…nah. I can eat anything.”

She nodded. “Alright. Sandwich sound good for right now?” She didn’t wait for a response before she started pulling out ingredients. Daryl watched as she stacked them on the counter, pulled down a plate, and began efficiently constructing a massive sandwich with what looked like turkey, ham, roast beef, and cheese. Humiliatingly, Daryl’s stomach let out a loud grumble, but none of the people in the kitchen reacted to it. He looked away from the food and found himself locking eyes with Hershel.

The older man was watching him intently, but there was no hostility in his expression. After a moment, his features softened.

“You must be awfully confused, son,” he spoke quietly. Something about his gentle tone made Daryl shift his weight uncomfortably. Hershel gave him a faint smile. “It’ll be alright. You’re safe here.”

“Yeah? Safe from who?” Daryl muttered under his breath. Hershel seemed to hear him anyway, and his smile took on a sad edge.

Maggie completed the sandwich and moved to put the rest of the ingredients back in the fridge. She put her hands on her hips and looked Daryl in the eye.

“You wanna eat this down here, or eat it in your room?” she asked. There was a faintly challenging glint in her eyes that Daryl didn’t understand, but he was suddenly too tired to care. He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to know these fucking people, and he didn’t want to be somebody’s property. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“In my room, I guess.” _At least that way I don’t have to talk to any of you._

Maggie nodded, grabbed a handful of napkins, and picked up the plate. She handed it to him brusquely. Daryl’s eyes dropped to the sandwich, a giant monstrosity of thick bread, meat, cheese, and various condiments oozing out the sides. It looked fucking delicious. His stomach rumbled again. This time, her lips quirked upwards.

“Come on, you.” She led the way back out into the hallway. Daryl paused briefly to look at the others. Beth smiled at him and lifted a hand, Hershel nodded, and Glenn simply watched him. Frowning, Daryl followed the woman out into the dark corridor.

Maggie led him up several flights of stairs, narrow windows giving him brief glimpses of the sprawling manor grounds. Just as Daryl started to tire, his steps dragging, she stepped out onto a landing and stopped at the first door on the right. She opened the door, reached in, and flicked on a light. She then stepped back and gestured Daryl in. Eyeing her suspiciously, he walked past her into the room and froze.

The room was huge, filled with a massive bed lumped high with blankets and pillows. A thick carpet squished under his feet. A large wooden dresser took up a good portion of the far wall, with a window that overlooked the sprawling back yard of the manor. A small table sat to the right of the bed, with two small, upholstered chairs on either side. Another open door to the left revealed a large en suite bathroom, complete with a tub _and_ a separate shower stall. Daryl stared at the room in shock, then turned to look at the woman who’d brought him here.

“What the fuck?” he managed. “This ain’t no cell.”

She grinned. “Was that what you were expecting? Sorry to disappoint you.”

Daryl stared at her helplessly. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Her grin faded, and she shrugged, looking away. “You’ll figure it out.” She nodded at the dresser. “We put some clothes that might fit you in the dresser. Beth’ll take your measurements tomorrow, get you fitted properly. We’ll pick up your dishes in the morning when we come get you for breakfast. The shower will never run out of hot water, so take as long as you like.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “In the morning. You locking me in here?”

“Yup.” She raised an eyebrow. “You gotta earn our trust first. If you do that, you’ll be free to come and go like the rest of us. Rick isn’t keeping us prisoner.”

He huffed out a breath and set the plate down on the small table. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of it.

“ _Why_ do you all call him that? Why’re you all so comfortable around him?”

“Rick?” she repeated, surprise coloring her tone. “He hates being called Lord Grimes. He usually won’t even respond if you try to.”

Daryl turned his head to stare at her. “Does he own you?”

She sniffed. “Rick owns my contract, yes. He doesn’t own me.”

“He know that?”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Obviously.” She looked him in the eyes. “He isn’t the kind of man you think he is, Daryl Dixon. You might want to give him a chance.”

Daryl frowned at her. “Why should I?”

She smiled slowly. “Because we might need you.”

With that bizarre statement, she stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her. The lock turned with a quiet _snick_. Daryl stared at the door for a long moment. The hell was that supposed to mean? Shaking his head, he put a hand to his temple and began rubbing it. None of this made any goddamn sense. Why would they need him? Why would Lord Grimes—Rick—buy a bunch of people who stood up to him and addressed him by his real name? Did he just like breaking people?

Daryl closed his eyes and shook his head again. Michonne, Maggie, and Glenn didn’t seem broken. They didn’t seem cowed in the least. If that’s what Rick wanted, why didn’t he just hire people with attitude? Why _buy_ them?

With a sigh, he moved to the window and looked down. It was a sharp drop from his window to the ground, with nothing but several stories of smooth stone beneath him. Nothing obvious to grab onto as hand or footholds. Rick had been telling the truth—he _didn’t_ trust Daryl. At least he wasn’t stupid.

Mind filled with troubled thoughts, Daryl ate his sandwich and took a quick shower that unintentionally became a long one once he felt that soothing water hit his skin. He hadn’t been able to clean himself since the police had taken charge of him two weeks ago, and it felt unbelievably good to wash all of that sweat and grime off his body. He didn’t even care that the soap and shampoo were fancy-ass brands that smelled like girly shit. Once done with his shower, he swaddled himself in the largest, fluffiest towel he’d ever seen. He held up a corner to his nose and simply inhaled the scent of clean fabric. Sighing, he stepped back out into his room and rummaged in the dresser for something to wear as pajamas.

After he’d dressed himself, he crossed over to the door and rattled the handle. The lock held firm. Daryl grimaced as he looked around the room. What could he use as a weapon? Just because these crazy people were being nice to him, that didn’t mean that they couldn’t be trying to sucker him into a false sense of security. Or worse, for all he knew, Rick had a key to the room and would come in here in the middle of the night, reassurances be damned. Scowling, Daryl combed the room. Underneath the dresser, he found a long, sharp sliver of wood that had separated from the baseboard, and he broke it off with a wrench of his hand. He eyed it with grim satisfaction. If he aimed right, he could take out an eye with it.

Uneasy, Daryl crawled into bed and stuffed the sliver under his pillow. He left the light on. If Rick—Lord Grimes— _whatever_ tried to come in here and force himself on Daryl, he sure as fuck wasn’t going to be taken by surprise.

Hours passed, and despite himself, Daryl found himself falling into a deep, restless sleep.

***

Rick stood in his dark study, wearily pouring himself a triple shot of whiskey. He carefully put the cap back on the bottle and stared at his tumbler with poorly disguised hatred.

 _You’ve done it again, you son of a bitch_ , he thought darkly. _You own another human being. A man who thinks you bought him as a sex slave. Does it feel good?_ He reached out and picked up the glass, fingers clenching tightly around the delicate crystal. _Is it fucking worth it?_

Rick gritted his teeth. “ _Yes,_ ” he hissed aloud into the silence. “Yes, it’s worth it. It _has_ to be worth it.”

Moving over to the window, he glared out into the sprawling lands he’d inherited from his father. His father, who’d raised him to value all life equally, who would never dream of owning another soul. His father, who would be _disgusted_ if he could see his son now. Scowling, Rick tossed all three shots back in one fluid motion and slammed the glass down on the windowsill. The crystal cracked loudly.

“Think of Carl,” he muttered to himself. “Think of Judith. It’s _worth it_.”

He braced his hands on the windowsill and lowered his head. He hissed one more time.

“ _It’s worth it._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for serious!fic. Since this is a work-in-progress, feedback is definitely welcome.
> 
> All my love to [fandomvision](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomvision/pseuds/fandomvision) for her help in plotting, beta-ing, and summarizing this bad boy! For the moment, I'm using [this](http://www.houseofnames.com/grimes-family-crest) as Rick's family crest.
> 
> Crossposted to my [tumblr](http://akaitsume.tumblr.com).


	2. Lifeboat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful support and comments!! ^___________^ You guys are awesome.
> 
> Again, endless love for [fandomvision](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomvision/pseuds/fandomvision). None of this would be happening without her. I mean it. Not one drop of Rickyl that I have produced would've ever happened if it weren't for her support and enthusiasm. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Crossposted to my [tumblr](http://akaitsume.tumblr.com/).

A brusque knock on the door woke Daryl immediately, and he reached instinctively for the sliver of wood under his pillow. He blinked dazedly in the morning light, trying to orient himself. As the key turned heavily in his door’s lock, he sat up warily and let his thick brown comforter pool at his waist. Daryl frowned. He’d slept the entire night through, completely unmolested. Lord Grimes had never tried to break in. His fingers tightened on the sliver of wood in his hand. Why would anyone knock on his door before opening it? To give him some semblance of privacy? What use was privacy to property?

The door opened, revealing Maggie. She poked her head into the room, eyed him, and smirked.

“Morning, sunshine. You ready for breakfast?”

Daryl stared at her for a moment. He shrugged, covertly stowing his makeshift weapon back under his pillow as he flipped his bedcovers off his legs. Her eyes dropped briefly to his pillow, but she said nothing. He frowned again, placing his hands on his back and stretching. He glanced at the bathroom.

“Wanna give me a minute?” he asked gruffly. She lifted a shoulder.

“I’m in no rush. Take your time.”

When Maggie made no move to leave, he shook his head and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door with a little more force than necessary. He placed his hands on the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His mind whirled.

 _I’ve been given a room half the size my entire apartment was. Nobody tried to get in during the night. She knocked before coming in. She even noticed my little weapon, and she didn’t say anything._ _And she can’t be on my side, because she seems loyal to Grimes._ He exhaled heavily. So far, nothing he’d experienced since stepping up on that auction block had been anything like he’d thought it would. He’d assumed that he’d be beaten, starved, and forced to do humiliating things for some arrogant son of a bitch who got off on that shit. Why give Daryl any luxuries at all? Even if he were just a servant, instead of a slave, there was no need to give him so much room. Frown deepening, he pulled back the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet. As he’d vaguely suspected, it was full of multiple brands of deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrushes, ointments, and lotions. An electric razor sat on the bottom shelf, its cord plugged into an electrical socket hidden inside the cabinet. He picked it up for a moment, then scowled and put it back. _I ain’t making myself pretty for nobody._

He brushed his teeth quickly and tossed on some deodorant, stealing glances at the bathroom door as he did so. When he finished, he opened the door and frowned at the woman, but she didn’t appear to have moved from her spot by the open bedroom door.  He glanced at his pillow, looked back at her, and nodded towards it.

“You going to tell Lord Grimes about that?”

She shrugged. “Not as long as it stays in here.” Maggie gave him a considering look. “I can’t blame you for wanting to protect yourself. As long as it doesn’t step beyond that, we won’t have problems, you and me.”

Daryl grunted and moved to the dresser. “But you don’t think I need it,” he responded dryly.

“I know you don’t.”

Daryl shook his head. Reaching into the various drawers, he pulled out a shirt, a pair of boxers, and a pair of jeans. He moved to pull off his shirt, then hesitated. He glared over his shoulder.

“You mind?”

A hint of a smile touched Maggie’s lips. “Not at all.” Without a fuss, she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. He shook his head and pulled off his shirt. Daryl wasn’t modest by any stretch, and if he had been, his two-week stint in the holding pens probably would’ve cured him of it, but…only two, maybe three people in this house had seen his back with its network of scars. He didn’t need to add anyone else to that list.

It would be just his sort of luck if his father had ended up treating him worse than Daryl’s new owner would.

As he changed, Daryl looked out over the lord’s property in the strong morning light. Beyond the towering wall, a wide, clear swathe of green served as a secondary perimeter around the house. Without cover, anyone attempting to cross it would be spotted easily by the people patrolling on the platform. To the left, a massive, thick forest curled away from the house and rolled down the nearby hills. To the right, an orchard stood proudly, colorful fruit peeking out from behind its foliage. Daryl could just barely make out a few people weaving between the trees with baskets in their arms. To the back of the property, sweeping fields of wheat bowed gently in the wind. A silo and shed stood alone beyond the orchard, and a small garden had taken root just behind the patrolled wall. Daryl slowly shook his head. Acres upon acres upon acres of land, with not another house to be seen for miles. Somehow, Daryl wouldn’t be surprised if Lord Grimes owned everything that he could see from this window. Meanwhile, Daryl and other people like him grew up with a handful of credits to their names, if they were lucky. It just didn’t seem right.

Lips pursed, Daryl chucked his dirty clothes into a hamper tucked into the corner and jammed his feet back into his slippers. He stepped over to the bed and reached under the pillow, just to double check that his little weapon was still there. Even as his fingers closed over it, he frowned. Twenty minutes ago, he would’ve laughed at the notion, but now he wondered if someone would come to make his bed for him. If they did, whoever it was would find his piece of wood in an instant. Daryl hesitated, then scowled.

 _Goddamn it_. Using short, angry movements, Daryl made his bed. He lifted up a corner of the fitted sheet for his mattress and tucked the sliver of wood away. He smoothed the sheet, placed his pillow atop the faint bulge of the wood, and folded his comforter above it. He frowned down at his bed, but it was the best he could do for now. They’d practically promised him that someone would be rifling through his chest of drawers once they found him more clothing, so he couldn’t hide anything in there. Maybe, if they saw that his bed was neat, they’d leave it alone.

And if they found his makeshift weapon, well, he’d just have to deal with it.

With that thought in mind, Daryl walked to his little table, grabbed his plate from last night, made his way over to the door, and tugged it open. Maggie, who was leaning against the wall, straightened immediately. She eyed him, nodded, and turned towards the stairs without a word. Daryl quietly closed the door behind him and followed.

Unlike the night before, this morning, the house was abuzz with activity. With each floor they passed on their way down the stairs, Daryl spied people, most of them seemingly in their twenties and thirties, chatting in the hallways and carrying various items that they ostensibly needed for their duties around the manor. On the third landing, Daryl paused. A group of four men were moving down the hallway away from him, each one holding an assault rifle. One glanced over his shoulder at Daryl and slowed in his steps. Daryl dropped his eyes to the gun the man was holding, then deliberately turned and made his way down the stairs. Maggie had paused on the next half landing, looking up at him. When Daryl pulled up alongside her, she gazed at him, visibly weighing whatever it was she was thinking of saying. She started down the stairs again, trailing one hand on the polished railing.

“…Rick saved us, you know,” she stated quietly. “My dad, my sister, and me. I wasn’t particularly grateful at the time, but I am now.”

Daryl eyed her, then lowered his gaze to the carpet running down the stairs. Curiosity slowly got the better of him.

“What happened?” he asked in a low voice. Maggie grimaced.

“Our neighbor was a greedy son of a bitch. He wanted our farm, and Dad wouldn’t sell. Bastard bribed the bank into demanding the rest of our outstanding debt. Told them he’d give them a quarter of what the land was worth. The bank took the bait, called in Dad’s debt, and when we couldn’t pay…” Her expression darkened. “It was off to the block for us.”

Daryl’s fingers twitched. He ground his teeth. _Fucking bastards gaming the system_ , he thought viciously. _They didn’t even do anything **wrong**. Can’t anyone live peacefully in this fucking country?_

Maggie continued, her grip tightening on the railing. “Mom…didn’t make it past the holding cells. She couldn’t stand the idea of…being owned.” Maggie closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling and exhaling slowly. “They left her in the cell with us. For hours.”

Fuck. Daryl’s stomach turned. He didn’t bother to ask how the woman had taken herself out of the picture. Whatever her method was, it wouldn’t have been pleasant. And with her husband and two children in the same cell…

He swallowed hard. “How long ago was this?”

Maggie took a moment to respond, her eyes shadowed with remembered hatred and sorrow. She cleared her throat. “About two years ago. The second the three of us went up on that auction block, Rick swept in and bought us.”

Daryl slanted a sideways look at her. “And you didn’t take it well?”

Maggie’s lips quirked upwards. “I punched him in the nose.”

Daryl snorted a startled laugh and came to a stop, one foot resting on a higher step than the other. He looked at her incredulously. “How did that go over?”

“I thought Michonne was going to kill me, but Rick just shoved a handkerchief up his nose to stop the bleeding and said, ‘Yer a good thot.’” When Daryl laughed despite himself at her impression, she smiled. “I’ll never forget it. I thought at the very least he’d Pacify me.”

 _I know the feeling_ , Daryl mused silently. “I heard some lords like them ‘feisty.’”

She glared at him, the smile dropping off her face. “Look. I get it, okay? I do. I’ve been there. But everything you think you know about Rick is wrong. He is _not_ a stereotypical lord.”

Daryl cut his eyes away. “He ain’t never tried to…”

“ _Never_ ,” came the instant, vehement reply. Daryl frowned at the stairs and nodded. After a moment, they both continued down the last flight of stairs. The instant they hit the ground floor, the scent of eggs and breakfast meat wafted out of the kitchen to greet them. They stepped into a bustling world of organized chaos. Several people were filling plates from platters piled high with eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, and waffles, talking loudly as they did so. Some of them grabbed a second plate to cover theirs with and headed straight back out of the kitchen, while others spilled out into the ludicrously large attached dining room to the right of the kitchen. Just as they were the night before, Hershel and Glenn were seated at the huge kitchen table. Beth sat across from her father by the window, a notebook at her side. A woman with short, graying hair was manning the stovetop, scrambling additional eggs for any latecomers. She looked up as Daryl and Maggie entered the kitchen. Maggie nodded to her as she passed, heading straight to Glenn’s side.

“Daryl, meet Carol,” she called out after giving her husband a brief kiss on the cheek. Glenn shifted against her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Carol turned to him, wiping her hands on a cloth. She held one out. “You’re the new one, huh? Like she said, my name’s Carol.” When Daryl clasped her hand, she pulled it in and squeezed tightly. She smiled rigidly. “I do a lot of the cooking around here. As fair warning, do not ever call me Cook. You got it?”

“Got it.” Daryl was not about to ask why she had an issue with that name. She nodded shortly, released his hand, and gestured at the table.

“Feel free to eat. You only get something hot for breakfast and for dinner, so enjoy it while you can. You guys can fend for yourself for lunch.” With that, she turned back to the stove. Daryl gazed at her back, inexplicably fighting back a smile. Something about her no-nonsense attitude calmed him, making him feel less like he’d wandered into a strange world full of sunshine and roses.

Before Daryl could sit down, Beth jumped to her feet and rushed over to him.

“Wait! While we have a second, I want to take your measurements.” She grinned. “I’m sure you don’t want me to wrap a tape measure around your waist after you eat.”

“Uh.” Daryl blinked. He gingerly set his plate from last night down on the counter, then winced when Carol, without looking, swept it up and placed it in the sink. He shifted away from her, focusing his attention on Beth. “Alright.”

Beth shooed him back into a corner and set her notebook down on an empty counter. She flipped to a new page, dug a tape measure out of her pocket, and stuck a pencil behind her ear. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she spun him around and ran the tape across his back. She dotted the numbers down in her book with quick, efficient strokes, and she moved on to the next measurement. Daryl stood uncomfortably, allowing the young woman to manipulate his limbs as she saw fit. She was remarkably businesslike about the entire process, never lingering or teasing. When she finished writing down the last measurement, she nodded to herself.

“We should have a fair bit of stuff that will fit you better than what you’ve got on right now,” she mused. “I’ll have it taken to your room, and I’ll get to work on your uniform.”

Daryl stiffened. “My uniform?”

Beth smiled up at him and waved her hand dismissively. “It’s only for formal stuff, don’t worry. I’ll keep it classy.” She pointed down at his feet. “What’s your shoe size?”

“Ten.”

Beth nodded. “We’ve got plenty of those, I think. We can get you fitted for some custom boots later, if you want.”

Daryl stared at her. “Why the hell would Lord Grimes spend that sort of money on me?”

Beth giggled. “Because he does it for all of us? You never know when it might come in handy.”

Discomfited, Daryl shifted past her and made his way to the table. “Um, maybe. Later.”

Unfazed, the young woman gathered up her notebook and headed back to her seat. “Fair enough. At least I have plenty to work with.” The moment she sat down, Beth flipped to the next page of her notebook and started doodling. When Daryl saw a shirt taking shape on the page, he averted his eyes.

He grabbed a plate and piled it high with food. As he dug in, he noticed Glenn and Maggie speaking to each other in low voices, Hershel looking on with a fond glint in his eyes. Daryl lowered his gaze to his food and ate quietly. The hustle and bustle of the kitchen swelled and faded as people came in to eat or talk before heading back out. More than a few of them glanced curiously Daryl’s way, but none of them bothered him. At one point, the bald black man from the night before appeared, bussed Carol’s smiling cheek with a friendly kiss, and settled down between Beth and Daryl. He gave Daryl a once-over, smiled, and held out his hand.

“They call me T-Dog. You’re the new guy, I’m guessing?”

Daryl shook the man’s hand. “Daryl.”

T-Dog nodded. “How’re you settling in?”

Daryl shrugged. “Going to take some getting used to.”

“Makes sense.” He helped himself to a muffin from a basket in the center of the table, then reached out and patted Daryl gently on the back. “You’ll be fine.”

Daryl’s eyebrows furrowed, and he determinedly resumed eating. T-Dog, seemingly fine with being ignored, turned to Beth and easily struck up a conversation with her. Daryl let the idle chatter wash over him. Nobody sounded stressed or particularly unhappy here. Maybe it was just because the lord wasn’t infecting them with his presence, but Daryl could feel his muscles slowly relaxing in the warm, homey atmosphere of the kitchen. Maybe, if he could just continue to avoid Lord Grimes, this wouldn’t be too bad.

Just as Daryl was about to relax completely—or as close to it as he ever got—a man walked into the kitchen with his hands over his face. He was wearing a tan, long-sleeved shirt, several buttons on the y neck undone, and dark jeans. Water glistened in his hair and clung to his shirt, as if the man hadn’t dried himself properly after showering. Daryl’s eyes widened when the man stopped rubbing his face and finally lowered his hands.

 _Grimes_.

The lord blinked blearily into the light of the kitchen, his blue eyes bloodshot. He made his way over to the table and dropped heavily onto the bench on the other side of Daryl. Daryl stared at him as the nobleman ground a palm into his eye. Eventually, Lord Grimes seemed to notice the staring, and he lowered his hand to look at Daryl. His eyes were blank.

“The fuck are you wearing?” Daryl blurted out. Rick was a fucking lord with hundreds of acres of property. What the fuck was he doing in a cheap shirt and worn jeans? Rick blinked at him.

“Clothing?” he answered slowly. Behind him, Carol sighed. She poured a cup of coffee and brought it over to the nobleman, lifting his hand and wrapping it around the mug before she let go. Rick obediently began to drink it, closing his eyes as he did so. Carol leaned close to him.

“I’m amazed that you’re even up,” she murmured in Rick’s ear. The nobleman grunted. Straightening, Carol looked over at Daryl with wry amusement in her eyes. “Don’t even bother talking to him until he’s had at least one cup of coffee. It’s like talking to a semi-coherent wall.”

“Shut up,” Rick muttered. He took another sip of coffee and sighed. “I love you.”

Carol smiled and lifted an eyebrow at Daryl as she turned away. “See?”

Rick mumbled something incoherent into his mug, eyes still closed. Daryl watched him for a long moment, then swept his gaze around the room. Everyone was still talking, touching each other, laughing. They were just as comfortable now as they were before Rick even showed up. Daryl leaned back, bracing his hands on the table. How was this possible? Even the people drifting through the kitchen simply nodded respectfully at Rick and continued on as if nothing had changed. In the midst of his confusion, T-Dog elbowed him gently in the side.

“You okay, man?”

Daryl glanced at T-Dog, then shook his head. This shit couldn’t be faked. Nobody would go this far out of their way to give Daryl a false sense of security. He wasn’t that important. The only explanation was that everyone he’d seen in this household was genuinely comfortable around Rick, despite the fact that he owned them. They teased him, but they were loyal to him. Maggie even said that she’d punched him, and Rick had let her off with a _compliment_.

_“Rick saved us.”_

Had he done the same for all of them? Deliberately buying people who’d been wronged by the government? Distantly, Daryl recalled the dark anger on Rick’s face as the man listed his reasons for buying him. That hadn’t been faked, either. Lips tightening, Daryl resolved to question the other people in this manor. What kind of lord pulled a white knight routine like this and actually got people to buy into it?

Rick set his empty mug down and sighed, slowly peeling his eyes open. He turned and gave Daryl a slow, considering look.

“How’d you sleep?”

Daryl blinked. “Bed was too soft.”

Rick frowned. “Too soft? Do you need another mattress?”

“I…no.” When Rick continued to frown at him, Daryl awkwardly waved his hand. “I’ll get used to it. It’s fine.”

“If you’re uncomfortable, I can switch it out for another one.”

Daryl thought of his little weapon stowed in his bedclothes. “It’s fine. Anything would be too soft after sleeping on the floor of a cell.”

Rick hummed, still frowning. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

Daryl nodded slowly. He eyed the nobleman’s shirt again, picking up on the frayed cuffs. He nodded at it.

“What’s with the get-up?”

Rick glanced down at his clothing. “What? It’s comfortable.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes. “You’re a lord.”

Rick glowered at him. “Not on my days off, I’m not. I’ll wear what I damn well feel like wearing, and it sure as hell isn’t those stupid peacock feathers.”

Carol came up from behind him and exchanged Rick’s empty mug with a full one. He nodded his thanks to her. Daryl watched the two of them quietly, mulling over this new information. Clearing his throat, Daryl turned back to his plate.

“You never did tell me what you want me to do around here,” he pointed out gruffly. Rick glanced at him, then looked around the room. After a moment, the nobleman shrugged.

“Ask Carol. Hershel, you heading out soon?”

The older man smiled. “Sure am. It’s a good day for it.”

Rick nodded, expression softening. “I’ll meet you out there in a bit.” He stood from the table, mug clutched in his hand. “Carol, thanks for the coffee.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Rick, you still need to eat something. Coffee isn’t breakfast.”

The nobleman reached into the basket of muffins and pulled one out, waving it in his hand. Carol nodded with satisfaction. Rick looked down at Daryl briefly, then stepped over the bench and made his way back to the entryway of the kitchen. He paused by Carol, and the two of them shared a look. Her chin dipped slightly. Lips twisting, Rick reached out and patted her gently on the shoulder. As he left, Carol squared her shoulders, scraped the last batch of eggs onto a plate, and began tossing the used pans into the sink. Daryl chewed slowly. _Wonder what that was about._

Hershel slapped his leg, breaking Daryl’s chain of thought. The old man climbed to his feet.

“Well, the day isn’t getting any younger, and neither am I. I’m off.” He smiled at Carol. “Thanks for breakfast.”

She smiled at him. “Leave your plate, I’ll get it.”

“Much obliged.” He moved away from the table, limping faintly. Maggie watched him go, then stuffed her last bite of waffle into her mouth and stood.

“‘Bout time I got moving, too.” She looked down at her husband. “I’m on the wall today.”

“I’ll walk with you,” T-Dog offered. Maggie frowned at him.

“You were working the night shift!”

He shrugged and stood. “I’m only on for a few hours today, no sweat.” He touched Beth’s shoulder. “Don’t get lost in your head again, little lady.”

Beth made a face at him. “I’m allowed to, I’m being creative.” She straightened nonetheless. “I should head to my workroom anyway. I’ll see you all later.”

The others moved out, leaving Daryl in a mostly empty kitchen with Glenn and Carol. When Daryl glanced at the young man, Glenn smiled.

“Yes, it’s always like this,” he answered Daryl’s unasked question. “And yes, Rick usually joins us for meals, and no, it’s not a big deal.”

Daryl set his fork down and leaned forward. “Ain’t none of you uncomfortable around him?”

Glenn shrugged. “Not really. Rick takes care of his own. He’s not a bad guy.”

“That’s what you keep telling me,” Daryl muttered. He hesitated, then dropped his eyes. “What got you put on the block?”

Glenn snorted. “My boss hated me. Apparently, his wife thought I was cute. Some funds go missing from the ledger, and my boss pins the entire thing on me. Next thing I know, I’m up on the block.”

Daryl scowled. “Bullshit. Did he have any proof?”

“His word and his ledger were good enough. The cops didn’t ask questions. I’m an Asian in Georgia, after all.” Glenn spoke glibly, but something dark and angry passed through his eyes. He shook his head and stood. “I’m going to get going. Let me know if you need anything.”

Daryl nodded and watched him leave. Carol began placing covers over the food, keeping it warm in case anyone else wandered into the kitchen. Daryl turned towards her, looking up into her eyes.

“Rick save you, too?” he asked dryly. Carol stilled, hands still resting on a metal cover, its fancy gilt disappearing under her fingers. She kept her eyes on the table.

“He tried.” Still not looking at him, she straightened. “He just happened to be too late.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”

She lifted her chin. “It wasn’t his fault. If blame belongs with anyone, it’d be my husband.”

“He in jail?”

“Better. He’s dead.” With that blunt response, Carol leaned back against the counter and folded her arms. “Enough of that. Now, I’m going to cover some house rules with you, since I get the feeling that nobody else has.”

Something about her posture made Daryl feel like a little boy waiting for a scolding. He stood up and faced her.

“Only thing I been told is that my door’ll be locked until you guys trust me.”

Carol nodded. “You won’t be able to do much of anything until we trust you. The gates require your fingerprint to leave, and we won’t register it with access until we know you aren’t going to just run off. While you’re here, you stay in sight of somebody unless you’re in your room. Within reason, obviously. The top two floors of the east wing are _completely_ off limits. You go in there, I’ll see to you personally.”

Daryl nodded slowly. “Lemme guess. Rick’s quarters?”

Her lips flattened. “It’s none of your business what’s up there. I’ll make it simple. If you see a portrait of a woman with long black hair in the stairwell, you’ve gone too far. Clear?”

Daryl frowned. “Got it.”

“Good.” She relaxed slightly. “As for general rules, we mostly just stick to doing what we’re good at. Everybody shares the load here. Even Rick. When you _do_ get to leave, you’ll either have to be accompanied by him, or you’ll have to wear his insignia. If you don’t, you’ll be marked as a runaway before you get fifty feet, and trust me, it won’t be pleasant.” She grimaced. “But that’s for another day. What’d you do before the police got you?”

Daryl shifted his weight and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He felt a faint flush of embarrassment climbing his cheeks.

“I didn’t…do much.” _I was an unemployed, shiftless jackass. I’m sure she’d love to hear that._ “Built some stuff for friends and neighbors every once in a while.”

Carol tilted her head. “Carpentry?”

“Some.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I’m not bad at it.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I think we can make that work. Anything else?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been known to get a car or two up and runnin’ again.”

Carol’s face lit up, and she smiled. “Wonderful. Dale could always use some extra help in the garage. Glenn helps him out when he can, but it’s not enough.” Before Daryl could protest, she lifted a hand. “Whatever you don’t know, I’m sure he can teach it to you. He’s patient.” Carol pointed to the open doorway at the far end of the kitchen, which opened into a long hallway filled with windows facing the back yard. “The garage is down at the end of that hall. There’s a cloakroom right next to it, and I’m sure you’ll find some boots in there.”

Daryl nodded slowly. “Alright.” When she watched him expectantly, he shifted his weight again. “You…”

Carol lifted an eyebrow. “I…?”

Daryl nodded at the overflowing sink. “You need help with any of them dishes first?”

She blinked in surprise, then let a slow, warm smile spread over her cheeks. “I’d appreciate that very much.” Turning to the sink, she turned the water on and tossed a dishtowel at him. “I’ll wash, you dry. Deal?”

Daryl nodded shortly and took his place next to her. They began working quietly, and Daryl let his mind wander.

This place wasn’t what he thought it would be, but it still wasn’t some idyllic little paradise. Everybody seemed calm and happy, but at the same time, there were armed patrols all over the wall and armed men walking down the hallways. Rick was “saving” people, but he still kept them as slaves. He strutted about as a lord in public, and people seemed genuinely terrified of him, but in private, he let his servants talk down to him. There had to be a reason for all of this.

If Daryl could be patient, he was sure he could ferret out the truth.

* * *

 

Rick climbed the stairs slowly, chewing idly on the last of his muffin. When he passed Lori’s portrait, his steps slowed, but he grit his teeth and kept moving. His hands trembled as a bubble of black rage welled up within his chest. Breathing slowly, he placed a hand on the smooth, stone wall and closed his eyes. He forced the rage down, as he always did. He could feel her painted eyes boring into his back, but he didn’t turn around. He resumed climbing, grimly proud of himself. Every day, it took a little less time to get himself back under control. He’d come a long way since the days when he couldn’t use this stairwell at all, forced to sleep in a guest bedroom instead of his own. He wouldn’t ignore Lori. He wouldn’t take her portrait down to make his life easier. He wouldn’t forget his failure to protect her.

He would not fail again.

Rick breathed a short sigh of relief as he reached the first landing, and he strode down the hallway. When he spotted the open door to Carl’s room, he frowned and poked his head inside. His son was nowhere to be found. Rick pulled the door shut behind him, jaw firm. Rick moved a few doors down and stopped outside the nursery. The door was closed. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He nodded with satisfaction. Reaching into his pocket, Rick dug out his master key and unlocked the door. He stepped inside the room, shutting the door behind him.

Michonne nodded at him, sheathing her drawn sword. Rick crumpled the muffin’s wrapper and chucked it into a nearby trash can. Carl poked his head out from the adjacent room, spotted his father, and grinned.

“Morning, Dad!” He rushed out, wrapping his arms around his father’s waist in a quick hug. Rick smiled down at him. Carl stepped back, eyebrows raised with excitement. “You’ve got the new guy?”

“Yeah.” Rick made a fist and mimed a punch. “He clocked a guard in the head. Knocked him out flat.”

“ _Awesome_.” Carl raised his fists and rocked up onto his toes. “Think he can teach me to box?”

“Maybe. We’ll have to see what he’s good at, first.” Rick looked around the nursery. Old toys littered the floor, from model trains and rocking horses to letter blocks and toy pegboards. Painted clouds floated on the sky blue walls, marred towards the bottom by crayon scribbles. A small bookshelf held various baby books with simple vocabulary and pictures. Three empty plates were stacked on a tiny table near the window. Michonne sat down upon the cushioned window seat, grabbed a copy of Goodnight Moon, and curled up in the corner. When Rick stepped forward and took a closer look at the letter blocks, his smile slipped.

The blocks spelled S-O-P-H-I-A.

Carl followed his father’s gaze. His shoulders drooped.

“She didn’t do that. I tried to get her to, but…” He hesitated, then smiled. “But I think I got her to actually play with a doll this morning! She didn’t just try to give it back to me, and she kind of bounced it around for a minute. And yesterday, she drew with a crayon!”

Rick managed a weak smile. “Did she?”

Carl nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Sophia! Come show Dad your drawing!”

After a moment, slow, shuffling steps came out of the adjacent room. Sophia slowly walked out into the room, her gray eyes and expression blank. She gripped a doll by its long hair, dragging it along the ground as she moved. The little girl stopped in the middle of the room, staring uncomprehendingly into space.

Pain and regret shot through Rick’s chest, though he struggled not to let it show on his face in front of his son. No matter how many years it had been, seeing the little girl like this never got any easier. Rick took a slow, deep breath, watching as Carl moved to the girl’s side and gently took the doll from her. Carl gripped her shoulders and looked intently into her dead eyes.

“Your drawing, Sophia,” he stated clearly. “Go get your drawing. Bring it to Dad.”

She stared blankly at him, blinking once every few seconds. After a long, uncomfortable minute, she turned and walked back into the other room. Paper rustled. She came back out, wielding a sheet of paper in her hands. Sophia walked straight up to Rick in her ungainly, shuffling gait, stopped in front of him, and held up the sheet of paper. Rick took it from her, using everything in his power to keep his smile on his face. Carl beamed.

“See? She did that on her own. I didn’t have to move her hand or anything,” he told Rick proudly. Michonne kept her nose in her book.

Rick looked down at the piece of paper. Sophia had drawn a red scribble, a simple thing created by dragging the crayon back and forth in shaky lines. A parody of a drawing. Rick lifted his eyes to Sophia’s. There was no light, no hint of emotion. Her eyes made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to keep smiling.

“Good job, Sophia,” he managed. Carl nearly bounced in his pride and excitement, and Rick’s heart broke into yet another painful shard. Carl didn’t understand. The drawing wasn’t the result of Sophia’s real mind clawing back up to the surface. It didn’t come from some creative well just waiting to be tapped. Sophia had seen Carl draw, listening to him explain what a drawing was, and when he asked her to do the same, she’d automatically tried to reproduce what he’d done. She heard “draw,” and she considered it an order. She obeyed.

Everything that had made her human, everything that had made her unique, was long gone.

He couldn’t say that to Carl. His son had taken one look at the young Walker, and he’d refused to accept that someone even younger than he was could be permanently stripped of her humanity. Carl had immediately started trying to teach her, insisting that she was young enough to heal from the damage that the Pacification chip had done. He played with her, tried to teach her the alphabet, got her to speak simple phrases. Anything to try and draw out her personality. But the poor girl’s mind had been destroyed, and the lessons never took. She might learn a new trick or two, but it was all rote repetition.

And it was all Rick’s fucking fault.

***

Rick stood towards the back of the auction room, Michonne a reassuring presence at his side. His palms were sweating in the stifling heat, wrinkling the pages of the book of lots that he’d received in the mail. He stared grimly at the stage, watching as other poor souls were sold off. As much as he wanted to help them, he could tell that they’d either given up long ago, or they actually were the violent people that the government was making them out to be. Neither would suit Rick’s purposes.

Cloying perfume from the noblewoman next to him clogged his nostrils, and Rick hurriedly moved away, his expression locked into the cold, hard mask that he’d learned to adopt in public. A fat man in a business suit took one look at Rick’s face and shuffled away, dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a lace handkerchief. Rick watched him go in disgust.

Up on the stage, the judge looked out over the crowd and called out the lot Rick was waiting for. Carol and Sophia Peletier, wife and child of Ed Peletier, an abusive, psychotic man who’d decided that dealing drugs from his home was a great way to secure a better future for them all. The police caught on, but Ed had flown the coop by the time they arrived. They arrested his wife and child, and when Ed was found dead in a motel bathroom from an overdose, they declared Carol an accessory to the crime just so they’d have somebody to punish for it. After all, the state got its funding from arrests and sales. With Ed gone, why not the family?

Carol stumbled out onto the stage, dressed only in the traditional brown loincloth and a band of fabric wrapped around her chest at a flimsy attempt at modestly. Yet another way for the local government to claim that it was running a classy, sophisticated business transaction. None of the fine, upstanding citizens waiting to bid would want to see a half-naked woman on the block. _That would make everything sordid_ , Rick thought darkly. Carol awkwardly climbed up onto the block, looking fearfully over her shoulder. Sophia had yet to come out onto the stage. The judge grimaced and gestured at the guards in the wings. A bloodcurdling scream pierced the air, making the entire crowd jump. Sophia ran out onto the stage, arms hanging limply due to the weight of the shackles on her wrists. Crying out, Carol tried to grab her little girl as she ran past the block, but malnutrition and sleep deprivation had slowed her down, and she missed.

“Sophia! _Sophia!!_ ”

The little girl, completely panicked, continued screaming, and she ran for the far end of the stage. The guards, thinking that they had an escape attempt on their hands, streamed out onto the stage. Five of them surrounded Carol, keeping her trapped on the auction block despite her attempts to push forward. Three of them blocked the exit. Sophia tried to backtrack, and she slipped hard in the sawdust, falling to the ground. One of the guards fell upon her and scooped her up, his grip clearly too hard. Sophia screamed and cried, kicking her legs wildly.

Rick shook himself out of his frozen shock and began pushing his way forward.

“One hundred credits!” he called out desperately, but the judge and the auctioneer couldn’t hear him over Sophia’s screams and Carol’s shouts. Rick kept shoving his way through the mass of people, Michonne actively shoving people out of his way.

Up on the stage, Carol kept shouting, trying desperately to push her way past the guards holding her back. “Sophia!! My baby! Sophia!!”

Sophia either couldn’t hear her mother, or she was too caught up in panic to respond. When the guard holding her against his chest put his hand over her mouth, the little girl bit him, hard. He swore and threw her to the ground. Sophia cried out in pain as she hit the floor.

Rick tried again, now that he was closer to the stage. “I’ll bid on them! One hundred credits for the pair!”

They still couldn’t hear him. Visibly disgusted, the judge lifted a familiar black remote. Carol spied it out of the corner of her eye, and she screamed. Out in the crowd, Rick yelled out.

“ _DON’T!_ ”

The judge punched in Sophia’s code.

Her screams as the Pacification chip activated would haunt Rick forever. He stopped dead in the crowd, horror leaving his jaw slack. She was just a little girl. She’d never done anything to anyone. She had her entire life ahead of her. When her screams cut off, Carol crumpled to the floor, sobbing. A hush fell over the crowd. With effort, Rick forced his expression back into the cold mask he always used, and he forced his voice into a steady cadence.

“One hundred credits for the pair,” he called out into the relative silence. He pushed his way up to the front of the stage, fixing the judge with his icy gaze. For once, he let his fury shine in his eyes, and he clenched his fists. The judge paled, and he swallowed visibly. Without looking at the stunned auctioneer, he banged his gavel.

“Sold to Lord Richard Grimes for one hundred credits.”

Carol was still sobbing, her face buried in her hands. Sophia sat up, eyes staring out blankly into the crowd. Fighting to keep his face impassive, Rick closed his eyes.

 _I’m so sorry_.

***

In the nursery, Rick gently handed Sophia’s drawing back to her. He lifted a hand to her hair.

“Good job, Sophia,” he repeated quietly.

* * *

 

Daryl closed the hood of the car he’d been looking over and turned to Dale, wiping his hands on a filthy cloth.

“Don’t see nothing that needs replacing right now,” he admitted, looking down at the blue sedan. “Maybe in a couple months.”

Dale nodded slowly from his position on his back beneath an SUV, and he pointed at a sheet of paper hanging on the wall behind the car. “Even so, can you write down what you saw for me? Rick’s rich, so if it’ll need replacing later, we might as well replace it now.”

Daryl shrugged. “His money.” He made his way over to the sheet, but he couldn’t help glancing at the rest of the massive garage as he did so. The garage seemed nearly as big as the manor house itself, filled with almost every sort of civilian vehicle Daryl had ever seen. Sedans, vans, SUVs, buses, pickup trucks, and even a tow truck, of all things. Towards the back, one tremendous vehicle had a massive, black tarp thrown over it. By its shape, Daryl strongly suspected that it was a military-issue humvee. Patrols and guns were one thing, but an armored vehicle? How paranoid _was_ Rick? After dutifully dotting down the questionable parts he’d noticed, Daryl made his way over to Dale and tapped the older man’s foot with his own. When Dale rolled out from underneath the SUV, Daryl pointed at the humvee.

“Goin’ to war?”

Dale blinked at him, then laughed. “We’ve sure got enough stuff here for an army, don’t we? Nah, Rick got that for me. Sentimental reasons.”

Daryl frowned. “You’re a vet?”

“Yup.” Dale rolled back underneath the SUV. “I spent fifteen years driving one of those bastards. Don’t feel safe without one around.” The old man sighed. “Used to be that the government at least tried to take care of its vets, you know. A lot of us…we have trouble keeping our feet under us when we get back. Used to be that that wasn’t something to be ashamed of.”

Daryl tucked the dirty red cloth in his hands into his back pocket. “Still ain’t. You did what you were supposed to do. Not your fault the cards are stacked against us all.”

Daryl could just barely see the edges of Dale’s smile in the shadows. “True. Maybe somebody should do something to fix that.”

Daryl snorted. “Right. Who’s gonna do that?”

Dale shrugged. “Somebody willing to stand up for it, I guess.”

Daryl took another long look at the covered humvee. His eyes narrowed. _Or maybe somebody with money._ After a moment, he shook his head. Everyone here was living a pretty cushy life, and the government… At this point, the government was a monolith that overshadowed everything. Why would anyone risk anything for a worthless cause? Sighing, Daryl moved down to the next sedan in line, and he popped the hood.

No point in wasting his time dwelling on the impossible.

* * *

 

The Governor sat at his desk, idly swirling a glass of red wine as he stared at his computer. A trail of smoke curled up from the tip of the lit cigar in the ashtray beside him. Light streamed in from the heavy windows, highlighting the dust motes that swirled in the air. A timid knock sounded from behind his office door. The Governor took a leisurely sip of his wine, swallowed, and tipped his head back.

“Door’s open.”

The heavy oak door swung open without a squeak, its oiled hinges working perfectly. The Governor smiled. _Little pleasures_. Milton stepped hesitantly into the room, adjusting his glasses anxiously. The Governor eyed his assistant and sighed, setting down his wine.

“Yes? Somethin’ you want?”

Milton hustled over to his desk, clutching a sheet of paper in his hands.

“Sir, I just got a report. Lord Grimes has acquired another indentured servant, a Mr. Daryl Dixon.” He tried to hand the sheet to the Governor, but the other man simply looked at the paper, looked back at him, and picked up his wine again. “I…would you like me to look into it…?”

The Governor leaned back in his chair. He took another sip of wine. After a long pause, he answered.

“Didn’t I tell you to look into all the others he bought?” he drawled, his voice low. “What makes you think that I wouldn’t want you to look into this one?”

Milton fidgeted. “It’s just that…nothing turned up with any of the others. I wasn’t sure you wanted me to waste your time—”

“No, see, _this_ is what I consider wasting my time,” the Governor interrupted, leaning forward and placing his empty hand on his desk. “Check up on it. Find out if this one has any connections outside of Grimes’ manor.”

Milton swallowed. “None of the others did.”

The Governor smiled, making Milton flinch. “Doesn’t mean that this one doesn’t.” He sat back, turning his attention back to his computer. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why I bother to pay you.”

At that, Milton clutched the sheet in his hands and tipped his chin up. “Because I’m still a free man. Because I’ve been your friend for years. And because you need me.”

The Governor’s eyes flicked back over to meet his assistant’s. His smile widened, and he tipped his head in acknowledgement.

“What can I say? When you’re right, you’re right,” he replied easily. Milton swallowed again, nodded, and hurried out of the Governor’s office. A second later, Milton’s hand darted out of the hallway, grasped the doorknob, and shut the door behind him. The smile dropped off the Governor’s face. He stared at his computer screen, where a picture of Lord Richard Grimes was staring out at him. Wordlessly, he took another sip of wine and set the glass down. He picked up the cigar, took a long drag, and carefully blew the smoke at Grimes’ image. For a moment, the picture was blotted out entirely.

The Governor smiled.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome! ^_^


	3. Alignment

The kitchen was warm, full of light and swelling conversations. Outside, the sun was just taking the last of its orange rays with it over the horizon, casting the landscaped gardens visible through the windows in deep blues and violets. The leftover heat from the multiple ovens nearby blasted Daryl as he gingerly removed yet another roast from one. Just as the scorching heat started to sink through his oven mitts, he managed to set the heavy tray down on a cloth spread across the counter. Huffing, he stripped the mitts off, flung them on the counter beside the roast, and turned the oven’s dial to off. A hearty aroma rose from the still-sizzling meat.

Carol shooed him aside, smiling. “Thank you, Daryl. All that bending over wasn’t doing my back any favors.”

“‘Course.” He stood back, watching as she cut into the meat and twisted the knife, checking the color around the blade. The beef was mostly brown on the inside, with the slightest hint of pink. Carol nodded with satisfaction.

“Perfect.” When she turned the knife to start carving the meat, Daryl reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. Carol looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Let me take that over to the dining table,” he murmured. “They can carve their own damn meat. You haven’t eaten a thing yet.”

Her lips twitched. “I’m used to waiting, Daryl.”

“You shouldn’t always have to,” he protested. “Let the rest of us do _somethin’_.”

Carol shook her head slowly, lips curling upwards. “I don’t need you to take care of me, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, removing his hand from her shoulder. “I know that, I just… You don’t have to do everything. You should get to sit down and enjoy your own food before it gets cold.”

Carol eyed him, then rolled her eyes and handed him the knife and a skewering fork. “Fine. But just for tonight. I’m not going to let you baby me.”

“Ain’t babying,” he muttered under his breath. He stuck the knife and the fork into the slice she’d made, and then he slipped the oven mitts back on as Carol moved back out of his line of vision. Just as he made to lift the tray, however, a dish towel whipped out and cracked sharply against his ass. Jumping, he swung his head around to stare at her in astonishment. Carol laughed, tossed the towel onto the counter by the sink, and made her way over to the heavy kitchen table. Scowling, Daryl lifted the tray and carefully carried the last dish out to the dining room. Weaving around people while carrying a piping hot metal tray was an exercise in frustration, but at least most of the manor’s staff moved out of his way once they noticed him.

As Daryl moved through the dining room, he eyed the other servants. Nobody seemed to care that they were sitting on finely upholstered chairs clearly intended to seat nobles, or that they were eating off a polished table that gleamed in the warm, golden light from the wall lamps and a golden chandelier. Many of the platters on the table had been decimated already, and people were rising to carry those plates and their personal ones off to the kitchen sink. New people streamed into their abandoned seats as if on cue. About halfway down the table, Daryl locked eyes with the long-haired brunette he’d seen on the wall his first night. The woman, who’d introduced herself as Karen when he’d bumped into her on his second day at the manor, stood up and cleared a space for his tray in the center of the table. Daryl set it down gratefully, nodding at Karen. She gave him a considering look, as most of them did whenever they glanced his way, and nodded back. Karen picked up the knife and fork and began slicing the meat for the newcomers. After a moment’s hesitation, Daryl retreated from the long, lavish dining room and headed back into the kitchen. Someone clapped him genially on the shoulder as he passed, making Daryl stiffen, but he tried to ignore it.

Daryl sighed quietly when his feet hit linoleum once more, and he walked over to an open spot at the table. He sat down between Carol and Dale, casting a quick glance over the group. Beth and Maggie were pressed up against the window on the other side of the table, and they were talking quietly. T-Dog, seated across from Beth, was casually interjecting thoughts into their conversation as he ate. Glenn and Hershel were nowhere to be seen, and a spindly young man with glasses was seated at the far end across from Carol, a pensive, faraway look on his face.

Before Daryl could so much as lift a hand to make his own plate, Carol set one down in front of him, loaded with meat, potatoes, and vegetables. He shot her a dry look, but she just gave him a somewhat smug smile and returned to her own plate. Shaking his head, Daryl dug in.

His mind wandered as he ate. The same people seemed to generally sit at the same places in the kitchen and the dining room; that much had been obvious by his second meal there. Every time, however, there were empty seats at the kitchen table, as if they were being held for people who weren’t there, even though the dining room table was packed elbow to elbow. Daryl hadn’t met everyone working at this ludicrously large place yet, but he couldn’t help but wonder who it might be. Frowning, he took an unthinking bite of seasoned, buttery potatoes. He closed his eyes reflexively as he chewed, savoring the flavor. The flavor almost reminded him of his mother’s potatoes, back when she was still healthy enough to cook and they actually had the money for something that wasn’t pre-packaged. Daryl exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, staring at the nicked and worn surface of the kitchen table. He let the conversations around him wrap around him like a soft, welcoming blanket. A warm hand settled briefly in the small of his back, bringing his focus back to the present. Dale gave him a quick smile and removed his hand.

“You did good in the garage again today, Daryl,” the older man told him mildly. “You’ve got a good eye.”

Daryl lowered his eyes to his plate and resumed eating. “Thanks,” he muttered around a mouthful of food.

Dale, clearly sensing Daryl’s mood, simply smiled at him and turned to T-Dog, seamlessly joining their conversation. Daryl picked at his food, an abrupt swell of bittersweet longing rising up within him.

How fucked up was it that whenever he’d imagined family dinners as a child, this was what he’d pictured? Soft light, good food, and people swelling with affection for each other. Warmth and happiness. Family. These people barely knew him, and most had only started to warm towards him, and it was _still_ closer to his imagined picture than pretty much any of his meals had ever been.  His father, an abusive drunk, had only ever spoiled meals with vitriol when he was awake to appreciate them. Merle, once he was old enough, was usually out getting in trouble with his friends. Daryl’s poor, harried mother, before she lost her tentative grip on reality, had always had trouble faking a smile for him even when she did manage to make him something to eat. Despite her best efforts, the warmth and safety he’d imagined were never there.

And yet, eating here in this kitchen as a slave, he’d nearly managed to find it. Fucking unbelievable.

Glancing outside as he ate, Daryl spotted Rick coming in through a thick gate in the south wall. He moved slowly through the growing darkness, stripping off his thick gloves as he went. His bearded face was shrouded in shadows, but when he looked up, his eyes gleamed in the light spilling from the kitchen windows. The nobleman continued his steady pace, eyes locked with Daryl’s until he finally moved out of Daryl’s line of sight.

Daryl continued eating, waiting quietly. After a few minutes, Rick strode into the kitchen, mopping his face with a towel. He paused by the kitchen sink and washed his hands, carefully avoiding the dirty dishes stacked within the tub. Tossing the towel on the counter, he turned and walked over to the table. When he moved to sit beside the young man with glasses, the boy jerked to his feet, sputtering apologies.

“I—this is your seat! I’m sorry, I’ll move. Right now. I didn’t—I’m sorry!”

Rick stopped dead and stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Patrick, you weren’t in my seat. Sit down.”

Patrick shook his head violently and gathered his plates. “No, I insist,” he rushed out. “I’ll just go into the other room. Take all the time you need.”

Flashing a weak smile at everyone else at the table, Patrick ran off into the dining room. Rick stared after him, a small frown on his face. Daryl watched him curiously.

 _So some of them ARE intimidated by him_ , he mused silently.

Sighing, Rick settled down across from Daryl. “Someday I’ll convince that boy that I’m not an ogre,” the lord mumbled under his breath. Rick made his plate, visibly sulking. Maggie patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.

“I’ll talk to him, Rick. He just hasn’t spent much time with you, that’s all,” she reassured him. Rick grimaced.

“Thanks.” Rick looked up, locking eyes with Daryl. His frown deepened, and he pointed a fork at the other man. “I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking. I’ve never done a thing to that boy. You hear me?”

Daryl nodded slowly. “I hear you. He ain’t new, though, is he.” Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “If I’m the last person you bought, how come he’s afraid of you? Ain’t he had time to get to know you like everyone else?”

Rick’s lips pursed. “I don’t exactly get to spend time with everyone equally.”

Daryl hummed in reply, eyeing Rick’s stiff shoulders. He didn’t much like the idea of Rick purchasing someone and then handing them off to everyone else, but with a place this large, he supposed it must happen more often than not. In fact, even with the number of people constantly streaming in and out of the kitchen, he suspected that there were a large number of people working here that he’d never laid eyes on, despite having been here for most of a week already. His routine had changed daily, sometimes helping Dale in the garage, sometimes helping Carol or Beth with household chores, and sometimes helping Hershel tend to the landscaping around the house. Everywhere he went, somebody was nearby, keeping an eye on him. The suspicion grated. What did they think he was going to do?

Rick’s routine seemed to change around at random, too. Some days Daryl would see him coming and going, heading outside the south wall for most of the day. Other days, he wouldn’t see the nobleman at all. Only one thing never deviated: Rick was always late to meals. Always. He would never turn up until pretty much everyone else had already eaten, and he would usually eat quietly once he did join everyone else. To Daryl, it seemed deliberate; Rick must have known that some of his servants couldn’t fully relax around him, but he wanted everyone to be comfortable in his presence, so he showed up anyway. It was a smart move.

In the face of Daryl’s continued silence, Rick relaxed and began to eat. Daryl couldn’t help but watch him, eyes focused on the way the cutlery flashed in the kitchen’s light. Strangely, this was the one area where Rick’s noble upbringing always shone through. Rick ate like he was dancing, with light, graceful, purposeful movements. Even using the same, normal cutlery as everyone else, Rick would turn them just _so_ , highlighting what little details were etched into their stainless steel surfaces. His meat was sliced into small, manageable pieces, and he would always pause a fraction of a second before eating each one, as if he were showing the other diners what a fine cut of meat it was. None of it even seemed intentional—it was just how the other man ate.

Daryl deliberately cut himself a piece that was far too big for his mouth and bit into it savagely. Rick didn’t seem to notice.

After a few minutes of eating quietly, Carol wiped her mouth on a napkin and leaned forward.

“Rick, we’re running low on a few things. Would you mind if I ran out to pick some up tomorrow?”

Rick looked up from his food. “Of course. Go right ahead.”

Carol nodded with satisfaction, then turned to gaze at Daryl. She watched him in silence for a long moment, making his shoulders tense under the scrutiny. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Daryl snapped at her.

“What?”

“Would you like to come with me? Get out of the house for a bit?”

Daryl blinked at her. “You want _me_ to come with you?” He glanced at Rick, who was gazing at Carol with intense focus. Frowning, Daryl brought his eyes back to the woman next to him. “I don’t know nothin’ about food.”

Carol shrugged. “You don’t have to. I’d just like the company, and I figure you could use a break from…” She gestured vaguely at the room, twirling her wrist. “…All this.”

Eyebrows furrowed, Daryl turned to Rick. The nobleman gazed at him calmly, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Daryl tipped his head towards Carol.

“You okay with this?” he asked gruffly. Rick’s eyes darted between Daryl and Carol, and then he shrugged.

“If Carol is, I’m fine with it.”

Daryl stared at him for a long moment. _He trusts me with his people? Alone?_ He turned back to Carol, looking into her sure, confident gaze. Somehow, he got the feeling that she could handle herself, woman or not. He nodded hesitantly.

“Sure. I’m game.”

She smiled. “Great. A little before lunch good for you?”

Daryl shrugged. “Ain’t got anything better to do. Why not?”

“I like the enthusiasm,” she returned dryly. Shaking her head, Carol returned to her meal.

Daryl fiddled with his fork, then glanced at Rick. The nobleman was still watching him, a pensive look on his face. Daryl tensed, waiting for some sort of warning or threat to be on his best behavior when out and about. After all, everybody still seemed pretty suspicious of him. Why wouldn’t Rick be just as wary as the rest of them?

To his surprise, Rick merely gave him a tiny smile and went back to his bizarrely graceful meal. Daryl’s frown deepened.

What was the nobleman thinking?

* * *

 

Daryl poked his head hesitantly into the garage, fingers absentmindedly fussing with the hem of his black shirt. The red and gold Grimes family crest was embroidered on the left side of his chest, bright against the dark material. Carol was lounging against a deep blue sedan, and she too was wearing a shirt emblazoned with Rick’s crest. When she spotted him, she smiled.

“Ready to go?”

Daryl nodded, and he headed over to the passenger side of the car. He got inside cautiously. Carol settled down behind the wheel of the car, started it up, and waved at Dale before pulling out of the massive garage. She paused behind the front gate and pressed a button on the dashboard. A slit popped open, and a small screen folded out. Carol pressed her thumb against the screen, and on the wall beside the gate, a corresponding monitor flashed green. She gestured for Daryl to do the same, and when he hesitantly pressed his own thumb against the screen, the outdoor monitor flashed green again. The gate automatically opened. Two guards, who had stealthily moved closer to the gate, melted away again atop the platform running along the wall. Carol tapped the button on the dash again, withdrawing the small screen, then put the car back into drive and pulled away down the long, winding private driveway.

Daryl watched Carol out of the corner of his eye. After a few minutes of riding in silence, he decided to speak up.

“Did you register me?”

She glanced at him briefly, then returned her eyes to the road. “Rick did, last night.”

Daryl frowned. “So I can just leave whenever I want to, now?”

Carol barked a short laugh. “You’re still on probation, Daryl. You were cleared for this little outing, and that’s it.”

“What if I run off?”

“You’d better hope we get to you before the cops do,” she replied seriously. She glanced at him again. “You thinking of doing something that stupid?”

Daryl shrugged, turning his head to stare out the window. Trees rushed by, unbroken by other houses. He idly wondered if Rick owned all this land, too.

“Just trying to figure you guys out,” he eventually responded. Beside him, Carol drove in silence, her fingers tapping gently upon the steering wheel.

“Is it so bad, being with us?” she asked quietly. Daryl glanced at her, and her eyes briefly flickered his way. “You seem to be adjusting pretty well.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He admitted grudgingly, “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”

Her lips quirked upwards. “You expected to be beaten every day and starved every night?”

“Ain’t that how it usually goes?” he shot back. Her tiny smile faded.

“…Usually, yes.” Carol’s lips pursed. After a moment, she continued, “I heard about what you said on the auction block.”

Daryl blinked. His eyes narrowed. “About how the government is shit? Fuck yeah, I said it, and I fucking meant it.” When she simply nodded thoughtfully in reply, he demanded, “What, you don’t feel the same way? After what they did to you?”

Carol’s fingers slowly clenched on the steering wheel, tightening until her knuckles burned bright white. With no inflection in her voice, she replied, “I want to burn the Governor’s house to the ground, and I want him to be inside when it happens.”

Daryl stared at her for a moment, then gave her a small, dry smile. “I could get on board with that.”

She glanced at him, but she said nothing. They both fell quiet, with nothing but the muted hiss of air moving around the car to fill up the silence. Gradually, the forests and fields beside the road gave way to suburbia, and other cars started making an appearance on the road beside them. Soon, stores began to pop up on either side of them, and Carol finally turned into a large parking lot. She parked in front of a tremendous grocery store, cut the engine, and stepped out of the car. Daryl followed suit, looking around curiously. Average people were milling around, either coming to and from shops, or lounging outside a nearby café with open-air seating. Daryl didn’t see anyone else wearing insignias or uniforms. Maybe the area wasn’t wealthy enough for people to afford contractors.

As they stepped inside the cool store, Daryl’s suspicions were immediately disproven. Two Walkers were browsing the shelves of produce, though Daryl couldn’t begin to guess what standards they were judging the products by. A young woman standing next to the dairy section turned as Daryl and Carol walked in, and her eyes caught on Daryl. He watched uncomfortably as she dragged her gaze down his body, and he slowed to a stop. After staring at his arms for a long moment, the woman seemed to notice his attention, and her eyes snapped up to his. Flushing, she turned away. Frowning, Daryl started walking again, and he took up his place at Carol’s side. She glanced at him, then moved over to the deli counter. She smiled at an older, portly man in an apron. He smiled back.

“Miss Carol! Always a pleasure,” he drawled. A smile broke out under his thick mustache. “What can I do for you today?”

“Same as usual, Harold. I need to put in my order for the next few weeks.” She perused the meats behind the glass. “You have anything special in today?”

He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I just got in a shipment of duck that I’m not sure I can move. You interested?”

Carol’s smile widened. “That’d be great, thanks. Can I see a sample?”

He puffed out his chest. “What do you take me for? Of course you can. Just wait here a moment.”

Once the man disappeared through a set of swinging doors, Daryl leaned closer to Carol. “If you just came to order this stuff, why didn’t you call? Or just order online?”

Carol batted at him, rolling her eyes. “Because I wanted to get out of the house for a few minutes, obviously. What fun is there in ordering everything online?”

Daryl grunted. Abruptly, his shoulder blades began to prickle, as if he were being watched. He glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, the young woman from before was staring at him again. This time, her eyes were focused on his ass. Feeling distinctly like a slab of meat on display, he scowled at her. Once again, the moment she realized that he was looking at her, she flushed red and turned away, one jewelry-bedecked arm reaching up to sweep her hair behind her ear. As she hurried away towards the front of the store, a Walker stepped in to take her previous spot in front of a basket of peaches. The Walker stared at the peaches, its soulless gray eyes processing. Mechanically, it reached into the basket and pulled out one of the fruits, squeezing gently and sniffing as if by rote. Without hesitation, it placed the fruit in its basket and repeated the process. Daryl shook his head.

“Wonder what the hell that Walker’s owners were thinking,” he muttered. Carol turned to face him, frowning. He nodded at the Walker in question. “Everyone knows they can’t think. It’s just as likely to come back with somethin’ rotten as somethin’ ripe.”

Carol’s jaw tightened, and she turned back to the deli counter, tapping her fingers.

“You don’t know that,” she replied in a tense voice. “I’ve heard that some can be taught to speak if you train them long enough.”

“Yeah, like parrots,” Daryl scoffed. His lips curled in disgust. He could still remember the first time a Walker had made the mistake of wandering into his podunk little town, back when he was just a kid. One of the kids had taken it aside and tried to teach it simple phrases, stopping it whenever it tried to leave and get back to whatever errand it had been sent on. It had eventually started repeating the phrases, just to please the child harassing it. Other kids got in on the gag, teaching the Walker to say raunchier and nastier things in its emotionless voice. Unfortunately for the Walker, a group of extremely drunk rednecks had then come outside to see what the fuss was about. It hadn’t ended well for the Walker. To this day, Daryl could still remember the way it hadn’t made a peep or changed its expression, even as the group beat it to death. It just…took it.

“Maybe they can be fixed, then,” Carol insisted quietly. “It’s _possible_ , Daryl.”

Daryl shook his head, his mind still caught on that Walker from his past. “They might as well be dead inside. Ain’t nothing going on in there, not even basic survival inst—”

“ _Shut up_ , Daryl.”

His mouth clicked shut. Daryl abruptly focused on Carol’s face, taking in the veins standing out in her jaw. On the counter, her hands had curled into fists. She turned her face away from him, and a swell of guilt rose up in his chest.

 _Fuck, who got Pacified?_ Hesitantly, he reached out to touch her shoulder, but he let his hand drop before it could make contact. He shifted his weight.

“Carol…”

“Ah, here we are!” The jovial butcher returned from beyond the swinging double doors, a packaged fowl in his hands. Pointedly ignoring him, Carol leaned over the counter to look closely at the duck as he set it down. With deft hands, the butcher unwrapped the large duck. His chest puffed up with pride. “Finest duck you’ll see around here, Miss Carol, or I was born a liar. Got more than fifty pounds of these in the back freezer, just came in yesterday. My buyer for them bailed on me, that motherless son of a bitch.”

Despite the tension in her face, Carol managed a smile for him. “It looks great, Harold. Ship them all to the Grimes manor for me, will you?”

Harold grinned. “You’ll have ‘em before dinner, Miss Carol. Want your usual vegetable, fruit, and dairy orders, too?”

“Yes, thank you.” Carol gently slapped the counter, still holding her smile. “I’ll see you around, Harold.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” he replied fondly.

Daryl followed Carol as she moved over to the cashier at the front of the store. After a brief explanation of her order, the cashier punched a few numbers into a small, electronic pad, then gestured wordlessly at a digital pad next to the conveyer belt. The pad had a slot for a credit card to be swiped, but Carol simply pressed her thumb against the screen. A light flashed, and when she pulled away, the screen displayed, “Transaction approved.” The cashier stripped off the receipt once it finished printing, and she handed it to Carol with a small smile.

“Thank you for your patronage,” the cashier said quietly. Carol nodded shortly and moved away.

Before she could head out the front door, Daryl gently grabbed her arm.

“Carol, I’m sorry,” he apologized softly. “I didn’t know.”

She took a slow, steadying breath, then smiled weakly at him. “I know. It’s alright.”

Daryl shifted his weight, letting go of her arm. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “If you don’t mind, who…?”

Her expression darkened for a moment, and she shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright.” He followed her as she walked to the front door, eyebrows furrowed. _When she said that Rick tried to save her…was this what she meant?_

When they stepped outside, the hot Georgian air swept around them, startling after the coolness of the grocery store. On their way to the car, however, the young woman from before, who’d been hovering near the door, approached Daryl with a smile.

“Excuse me, sweetie, but is your owner anywhere nearby?” Her voice was surprisingly low, despite her small frame. She smiled at him, coyly patting down her hair. “If you have a minute, I have an awfully big backseat in my car.”

Daryl stared at her incredulously. This woman was _propositioning_ him? Why the hell would she do that?

Huffing quietly, Carol stepped up beside Daryl. She tapped the crest on her shirt.

“Do you not see this?” she asked sarcastically. “Do you have any idea who we belong to?”

The young woman glanced at Carol dismissively, but her gaze did catch on the Grimes family crest. She blinked at it for a moment, and then her eyes widened, and she took a step back, palms raised.

“I’m sorry,” she hurriedly apologized. “I knew you were property, but I didn’t realize…” She swallowed. “I’ll just be going now.”

With that, the young woman darted away, sundress fluttering in the still summer air. Muttering to herself, Carol opened the driver’s side door and sat down. After a stunned moment, Daryl got in as well. He turned to Carol as he put on his seat belt.

“The hell was that about?”

Carol lifted her eyebrows. “You don’t know?”

Daryl frowned. “Know what?”

Sighing, Carol started the car and put it in reverse. She braced her arm on Daryl’s seat, twisted around, and carefully backed out of her spot. She straightened up, slipped the car into drive, and took them out of the parking lot.

“A lot of people assume that…well, that anyone who’s been made property is up for a good time with anybody who asks, at least if their owner isn’t around,” she told him ruefully. “Pretty as you are, you’ll be getting a fair bit of that.”

Daryl’s jaw went slack for an instant before he clicked it shut again. “What—I’m not _pretty_. The hell are you talking about?”

Carol snorted and gave his biceps an eloquent look. “You are. Trust me. And unfortunately, most people think that anybody good-looking is probably a sex slave. You’ll need to be careful.”

He huffed, folding his arms over his chest. “I can protect myself.”

“And because we belong to Rick, you defending yourself isn’t as big of an issue.”  She glanced at him. “You know that normally, there’d be a legal battle if you fought back against someone in self-defense, right?”

Daryl stared at her. “But…wealthy assholes use contractors as bodyguards all the time.”

“That’s for the _owner’s_ defense, not their own. As property, we don’t have the right to defend ourselves.” Carol grimaced. “But people are so afraid of Rick and his mountain of lawyers that one glance at his crest is enough to send most of them running.”

A sick feeling settled in Daryl’s stomach. “But you’re saying that nobody else is that lucky.”

Carol nodded grimly. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

Daryl closed his eyes briefly. He'd known what kind of people bought so-called criminals as contractors, and he'd seen Walkers and a few contractors over the years, but there were very few of either in his tiny hometown. He'd always assumed that their bad treatment came from their owners, not the people who placidly accepted what happened to their peers. His stomach twisted—several people probably thought they were even being progressive by offering to sleep with contractors. Or just drawn by their appeal as delinquents.

And they couldn't even defend themselves from strangers? That bit of sadistic truth had skipped him by.

"But Rick… He steps in if you have to stand up to someone if he's not there?" he asked gruffly.

Carol smirked, still facing the road. "With a vengeance."

Daryl chewed that over quietly. He still didn't get why Rick would even care. If the rest of the world couldn't give a shit, why would any man buy people and then protect them?

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, Daryl was still thinking about the strange lord who'd purchased them all. He walked along the bushes lining the side of the manor, spraying them liberally with a hose. Mist from the spray occasionally wafted over his skin, carried by the gentle breeze that had picked up. A clang from behind him brought his head up. The small gate leading out the south wall had opened, and Hershel limped through it. The old man spotted Daryl, and, smiling, he made his way over to him. Daryl set the hose down quickly and wiped his hands on his jeans. He nodded at Hershel's leg.

"You alright?"

Hershel chuckled softly and patted his own knee. "I've been worse. My leg just doesn't like it when I overdo it." He winked. "Do me a favor? Don't tell my daughters that I said that."

Daryl's lips quirked up into a half-smile. "They babyin' you lately?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Hershel replied dryly.

Daryl shifted his gaze to the gate. "What're you doing back there?"

"Helping Rick with his little garden." When Daryl snapped his gaze back to him in surprise, the old man chuckled. "What'd you think he did back there?"

Daryl shrugged uneasily. "Not gardening, that's for damn sure." He hesitated.

Hershel shifted his weight to his good leg. "What's troubling you, son?"

"Can you…" He trailed off, then firmed his lips and lifted his jaw. "Will you take me out there so I can see him? I got something to say to him."

Hershel gave him a once-over, then smiled. "I think we can arrange that. It's probably a bit overdue." He turned and started limping back to the gate. Daryl felt a spike of guilt.

"If you're not feeling well, we can do it another time," he tried. Hershel waved him off.

"No time like the present, son." The older man gave him a faintly concerned look. "Just…go easy on him, alright? Rick's a good man."

Daryl grunted in reply. Together, they walked down the stone path leading to the gate, passing the landscaped flower gardens dotting the manor's backyard. When they reached the gate, Hershel pressed his thumb against the monitor on the wall. The gate obligingly swung open. Hershel stepped aside, gesturing for Daryl to walk through the opening. Once he did, however, Hershel stepped back and let the gate close with him on the inside. Daryl looked around, then frowned.

"Hershel?"

The older man chuckled. "You can find him on your own, I'm sure. Don't do anything stupid." He pointed at the wall patrol guards who were heading their way as he spoke. "Remember, be nice."

Daryl watched incredulously as Hershel turned and limped away, heading for the house. He looked up at the guards, who were clutching their impressively large guns. Nodding to himself, Daryl turned to face the small vegetable garden set back from the wall. Sure enough, Rick was back there on his knees, carefully tending to his little garden. Wiping his hands on his pants once more, Daryl strode over to him. He stopped on the opposite side of the plot and looked down at the other man. Rick didn't look up.

Daryl took the opportunity to study the other man. Despite the gray in his beard, Daryl got the sense that Rick was around his age, give or take a few years. His muscles bunched and relaxed under his long-sleeved shirt, spotted with dirt and soaked with sweat. His face had tanned in the summer sun, and his nose was faintly red. Daryl's lips flattened.

"So, what, am I supposed to like you because you don't treat us like shit?" he asked darkly, deciding to cut to the chase. Rick paused and looked up, seemingly unsurprised to see Daryl in front of him.

"Nobody ever said you had to like me," the lord replied mildly. Daryl scowled.

"All I hear day in and day out is what a good man you supposedly are. Coming from slaves about their slaveowner, you might understand why I'm suspicious." Daryl's fists clenched. "Exactly what does a man have to do to win loyalty that strong?"

Rick looked at him thoughtfully. "What do you think I did?"

Daryl ground his teeth in frustration. "If I knew, I wouldn't be _askin'_ , would I?" He flung out a hand, gesturing wildly. "All I know is that you keep buying people who got fucked over by the government, but it's not like you're setting them free or nothin'! You take care of them, I guess, but we'd all still have rights if you fucking let us go."

For the first time, Rick actually looked uncomfortable, his eyebrows knitting together. He looked down at his crops, then back up at Daryl.

"It's…complicated." He winced faintly. "I know that sounds like a cheap answer—"

"Damn right it does," Daryl snarled.

"But it's the best I can give you right now," Rick finished. He frowned. "I do my best to make sure that nobody feels like…like property."

"Even though they are." Daryl scowled. "What the hell is it that you people won't tell me? How am I supposed to just buy this white knight routine of yours?" He jabbed a finger at Rick. "No matter how you spin it, you own all of us. Our fucking lives are in your hands. And you own a _lot_ of us. What, do you get off on 'rescuing' people? Do you _like_ owning people?"

Without warning, Rick leapt to his feet, his features contorting with rage.

"I do NOT enjoy owning people!!" he roared savagely. His fists clenched within his heavy gardening gloves. “It makes me _sick!_ ” His voice dropped an octave, and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t you _ever_ accuse me of that again.”

“Or what? You’ll beat the shit out of me?” Daryl pressed. Rick inhaled and exhaled powerfully, his nostrils flaring with each breath. The lord clenched and unclenched his fingers. He breathed out slowly through his mouth, straightening his fingers in a visible attempt to keep from balling them up again.

“Stop provoking me, Daryl,” he growled. “You can push and push, but it’s not going to turn me into the sort of man you think I am.”

Daryl eyed the nobleman, taking in his still-visible fury as Rick wrestled it down. He glanced over his shoulder at the wall, where two different guards were watching him, guns at the ready. He turned back to Rick, whose eyes had never once flickered up at the people tasked with his protection. Slowly, Daryl slipped his hands into his pockets and narrowed his eyes.

“If you hate it so much, why do it? Why keep buyin’ people?”

Rick closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, disgust filled his face, but somehow, Daryl didn’t feel like it was directed at him. Rick heaved a heavy sigh and squatted back down.

“Because sometimes, you have to do what makes you sick if it’s for the greater good,” the nobleman replied grimly. “Everyone makes sacrifices. Mine are the least of them.”

Daryl stood there in silence, watching the other man as he returned to tending to his little plot, tugging gently but firmly at weeds. Sighing, Daryl sank to his own knees in front of the garden. When Rick’s eyes flicked up at him, Daryl shrugged.

“You weedin’?” Rick nodded slowly. Daryl spread a hand out over the plants in front of him, palm up. “Anything you want me to focus on in particular?”

Rick stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes to the small mound of weeds beside him. He plucked one off the top, with bulbous leaves and thick, red stalks, and he handed it to Daryl.

“Get all of these. None of my crops look like that,” he replied brusquely. Daryl nodded shortly and started pulling at the weeds, careful to get at the roots. Rick watched him for a moment, then resumed working on his side of the garden. The two weeded in silence for a while, the sun slowly sinking down towards the horizon. Just as Daryl shifted further down on his side of the garden, a glove flopped onto the ground next to him. Daryl looked up, but Rick was steadfastly ignoring him, now pulling weeds with his left hand and balancing his weight on his right. Without a word, Daryl slipped the warm glove over his right hand, and he went back to work.

* * *

 

Three days later, Rick was back at his little garden, gently disturbing the soil between his crops with a small spade. Soft footsteps approached him through the well-trimmed grass. Rick nearly ignored the sound, absorbed in his mind-clearing work, but the even gait of the other person suddenly sank in. He tensed, looking up warily. Daryl gazed down at him, his face impassive. He was slowly wringing a pair of gloves between his hands.

A bead of sweat ran down Rick’s back. Was Daryl here to accuse him some more? Did he come outside to point out more ways that Rick was a sad excuse for a decent human being? Rick’s jaw clenched, his teeth aching dimly from the pressure. The worst part was that he couldn’t even _defend_ himself to this man. From Daryl’s point of view, Rick was a monster. A kind one, but a monster nonetheless. Why _shouldn’t_ he distrust the man who _owned_ him?

At least Daryl seemed to be getting along with the others. Even Rick had no real problems with Daryl; the other man’s antagonism was a relatively good sign. If he’d turned out to be a pushover, Rick would’ve spent his money and compromised his values— _again_ —for nothing.

The other man’s continued silence caused the muscles in Rick’s shoulders to stiffen. Taking a measured breath, Rick went back to his digging. He waited apprehensively for Daryl to speak.

Instead of saying anything, Daryl settled down on the other side of the vegetable garden and pulled on his gloves. Wordlessly, he resumed his weeding from a few days ago. Rick’s hands paused, and he stared at the churned earth in front of him. _Why didn’t he…?_ His eyes flicked up, briefly meeting Daryl’s before the other man lowered them again. Rick exhaled slowly through his nose, wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, and nodded at Daryl. Despite having his eyes turned away, Daryl gave him a short nod in response.

Rick felt the corner of his mouth pull up into a slight smile.

* * *

 

Sighing, Daryl set down a stack of papers on a small table flush up against the wall next to a locked door. He frowned as he straightened, mentally tallying the list of chores he’d been asked to do today. By his count, there was nothing left for him to do. Scratching idly at his left bicep, he looked at the stairwell beyond the kitchen, moonlight streaming in through the windowed door on the ground floor landing. Since he had nothing to do, he could technically just head up to his room now and wait for someone to lock his door. His frown deepened suddenly, and he glanced around.

No one was in the hallway with him.

Daryl blinked in surprise. For the first time in the month since he’d gotten here, he’d been left without supervision. There were still lights on in the kitchen, as always, and he could hear the near-constant noise of other servants going about their business, but nobody was coming out to check on him. In fact, over the last few days, they’d grown pretty lax when keeping an eye on him. Maybe they were finally starting to trust him?

A tiny, warm thread of something Daryl refused to identify wormed its way through his chest at the thought of being accepted, and he ruthlessly squashed it. He didn’t _need_ their acceptance, even if they all seemed to be good people who cared about each other. Even though they didn’t treat him like some worthless, know-nothing hillbilly. Glowering, Daryl ran a hand through his hair and turned away from his stairwell, walking down the hallway. When he hit the spacious grand foyer, he paused, looking up at the massive, threatening chandelier. To his eyes, it still looked like a weapon, ready to be dropped on an unsuspecting home invader’s head. Or an army of them.

Daryl shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around the foyer. To the right of the grand entrance were the rooms and hallways he was familiar with. Thus far, everything he’d been asked to help with had been in the west wing of the manor; up until now, he’d been kept busy enough that he hadn’t even thought about exploring. To the left, however…

He glanced at the hallway leading to the east wing. After a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged and walked down it. Carol had warned him off the top two floors, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t explore the ground floor, at least. As he walked, he took in the paintings decorating the walls. Most of the doors he passed were closed; the few that were open revealed a series of sitting rooms, parlors, and dens when he absently poked his head into them. One room gave him pause, and he flicked on the light switch next to the door to see into it properly. A giant pool table took up the heart of the room, with an old foosball table and a few pinball machines lining the dark wood walls. A huge flatscreen TV was hung above a curled wetbar, and a large, overstuffed sofa took up the entire wall next to the door. With a start, Daryl realized that he hadn’t watched a second of TV since his enslavement, and he hadn’t even noticed the loss. Some part of him had assumed that anyone living in a _castle_ wouldn’t even own a TV, or anything of any entertainment value. He frowned thoughtfully and turned off the light, backing out of the room once more.

Daryl headed towards the back of the manor, eventually finding a winding staircase that mirrored his own, down to the windowed door leading outside. He rubbed a hand against the nape of his neck, then decided to walk along the hallway to his left. Unlike the west wing, where the hallway that ran along the south side of the building was lined with windows, here in the east wing, it was lined with rooms that faced the back courtyard. Light spilled out of a cracked door to his right. As quietly as possible, Daryl walked up to the door, lined himself up with the shadowed doorway, and peeked inside. Rick, dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks, was seated on his desk, his back to Daryl. An almost-full bottle of whiskey sat next to him, and he balanced a shot glass on his knee as he stared outside into the moonlit darkness. Rick twisted his fingers absentmindedly, making the soft light in the room catch on the amber of his liquor and bounce off the faceted crystal glass. He took a sip of his drink, ice clinking. When he set it down, Rick tipped his head back, staring up at the moon. The nobleman sighed.

Daryl stepped back, away from the strangely private scene, and briefly pressed his back against the wall. He’d actually been spending a fair amount of time with Rick. Every three days or so, he would help the nobleman tend to his garden, mostly because that’s how often the other man would go out back to see to it. They never talked, which should have made everything tense and awkward, but instead was strangely soothing. The rest of the time, Rick was like a ghost, either lost somewhere in the bowels of the manor or driving off with Dale in his black car. The days he left the manor always coincided with days that Daryl wasn’t working in the garage; he wouldn’t know it had happened at all unless he spotted the car leaving. Today had been one of those days. After a moment, Daryl stepped quickly across the gap and continued down the hallway, leaving the nobleman in peace. More light was spilling out of a set of open double doors. Curious, Daryl stepped inside. His eyes widened.

A tremendous, two-floored  library spread out before him in a circle, with two half-moon staircases sweeping up to the second floor. The library, crammed with towering shelves that were stuffed full to bursting with books, curled around a wide, elegant parquet floor that gleamed in the light from an antique chandelier. His boots clacked on the floor as he stepped inside the immense room, the sound reverberating oddly. Had this once been a ballroom?

He walked slowly through the shelves, noting the general wear and tear on many of the books. Here and there, a soft beanbag chair was tucked away between the bookcases, inviting a casual reader to curl up and dive into their own little world. Daryl slowly made his way to the back of the library, eyebrows raised. He himself wasn’t much one for reading, but a collection like this took even him aback. Maybe he could actually find something interesting to read in his limited downtime when stuck in his room. Just as he reached the back of the library, he heard a faint, indrawn breath to his right. Before he could turn, a body slammed into him, shoving him into the nearest bookshelf. He instinctively grabbed at his assailant, but just as he wrapped his hands around a slender wrist, he felt something sharp and cold press against his throat. He froze.

Michonne glared at him, her eyes shining with fury. She leaned in, katana held tight against the skin just under his chin.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

His shock evaporated. Daryl scowled at her. It just figured that he hadn’t seen the sword-wielding psychopath since the night he was bought, and when he finally ran into her, she threatened him.

“Nobody told me I can’t come in here,” he snarled back. “I was told the top two floors were off limits, and the fucking doors were open. Got a good reason why I _shouldn’t_ be in here?”

Michonne’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You need to leave. Now.”

“Why?” Daryl challenged. “Ain’t I got a right to be in here? Or is the library reserved for fucking assassins?”

Still carefully holding the sword at his throat, Michonne took a step back. She jerked her head towards the entryway.

“It’s none of your business why,” she growled. “Just get out of here. Door’s that way.”

Suddenly fed up, Daryl took a chance and batted the sword away. He slid to his right as he did so, taking up a firm stance in the middle of the aisle. His fists clenched.

“Not ‘til you tell me why I can’t be in here,” he demanded. “The fuck is going on in this place?”

“It’s none. Of your. Business,” Michonne ground out through clenched teeth.

Daryl kept his eyes on her blade, which she kept pointed straight at him. “It sure as hell _is_ my business. I fucking live here now. I’ve got nowhere else to go. And I’m fucking sick of all the goddamn secrecy! What are you people hiding from me??”

Michonne took a sharp breath, either gearing up for a reply or an attack. Daryl shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to dodge if necessary.

A pealing cry erupted from a small room off to the side of the library. Daryl and Michonne froze. The unseen baby continued to cry, its loud wails bouncing off the walls in the converted ballroom. In the dim light of the aisle between bookshelves, Michonne’s face darkened. Slowly but steadily, a swell of rage rose up within Daryl’s chest. A baby? They were hiding a _baby_ from him? There were _kids_ here?

Did Rick _own children?_ Or worse…were they _his??_ Daryl hadn’t seen any Lady Grimes around at all, nor had a wife been mentioned. _Whose baby was it?_

Hands trembling with anger, Daryl spun on his heel and stormed out of the library, aiming straight for Rick’s study.

He and the lord needed to have a fucking _chat_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted to my [tumblr](http://akaitsume.tumblr.com). Concrit is absolutely welcome, and feedback is the fuel that keeps me going!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> As always, all my love to [fandomvision](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomvision/pseuds/fandomvision)! Without her, this story (and all my other rickyl) wouldn't be happening.


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This chapter fought me tooth and nail. -_- Thank you so much for all of your support!! Your feedback is the only thing that got me through this monster. ^_^;;; *huuuugs EVERYONE*

The door to Rick’s office slammed open under the force of Daryl’s kick, banging against the wall and rebounding sharply as Daryl strode through. Rick tensed visibly, his shoulder muscles crisply defined beneath his white dress shirt. Daryl came to a stop in front of the nobleman’s desk, fists clenched. Rick slowly turned to face him with an inscrutable expression.

“Something I can help you with?” the lord asked dryly, taking a small sip of his whiskey. Daryl scowled at him.

“You wanna tell me why I heard a _baby_ crying in the fucking library?” he hissed, teeth clenched. When Rick froze, Daryl’s fury slipped a notch higher. “Or why that baby would be guarded by your fucking psychotic ninja?”

Rick didn’t seem to be breathing. After a prolonged moment, he slowly set the glass down on his desk. The ice clinked. The nobleman straightened in one smooth, controlled motion, and he placed his hand firmly on the desk. He splayed his fingers wide.

“Daryl…” he started in a low voice, eyes on the other man. Daryl took another step forward and gestured angrily over his shoulder.

“Cuz you know, I ain’t seen no fucking _Lady Grimes_ walking around anywhere. You got her stashed away somewhere?”

Rick’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. On the table, his fingers were turning white from the pressure Rick was pouring into them. A muscle in the nobleman’s jaw jumped, and he shook his head. Daryl’s scowl deepened.

“Then whose fucking baby is that?” Daryl’s teeth ground together. Just when he was almost starting to _trust_ this son of a bitch…

Rick watched him, his features growing hard and distant. For the first time since they’d come to the manor, Rick looked like the cold, passionless man that Daryl had been introduced to. The infamous Lord Grimes, whom everyone seemed to be afraid of. Daryl clenched and unclenched his fists. Which version of Rick was the illusion?

After a poignant silence, Rick stiffly replied, “She’s my daughter.”

Daryl took a slow breath. “And who’s the mother?” he ground out. The muscles in his forearms twitched as he fought to keep himself from raising his fists. None of the women he’d met at the manor seemed to be afraid of Rick, but what if some were? What if Rick didn’t come after any of his servants because he’d already chosen one to service him regularly? Where was she? Did Rick actually keep a woman _stashed away_ in this godforsaken place??

Before Daryl could open his mouth to hurl accusations at the nobleman, Rick cut him off.

“My wife. Lori.”

Those sharply bitten off words stopped Daryl’s thoughts in their tracks. His eyes narrowed.

“I thought you said there wasn’t a Lady Grimes around here.”

Rick’s lips thinned. “There isn’t.” He paused for a long moment, never dropping his gaze. “She’s dead.”

Daryl blinked, his rage ebbing. “…Dead?”

“Two years ago. Right after Judith was born.” Rick lowered his eyes for a moment, but not before Daryl caught a glint of restrained fury. “In the hospital, in fact.”

Daryl shifted his weight awkwardly, eyebrows furrowed. “But…you’re part of the nobility. Noblewomen never die in childbirth anymore,” he replied warily.

“Of course not.” Rick’s voice dropped an octave. When he raised his eyes, they were lit with rage. “The government killed her. For _immoral behavior_.”

“For…” Daryl trailed off, his eyes widening. If she was killed right after the baby was born, there could only be one reason for it. All infants were genetically tagged at birth, which would have shown the baby’s parentage immediately. “The baby isn’t yours.”

Rick slammed his hand against the desk, hard enough that his glass jumped. “Judith is _mine_. I don’t care what her DNA says. She’s _my daughter_.” He breathed in and out slowly, a lock of curly hair slipping free of the pomade slicking it back. Rick angrily swept it off his forehead. “They would have killed her, too, you know. The product of an immoral union? They can’t see how she would be anything but a _burden_ upon society. Even though I wanted her, they think it’s best for any such children to just be _put down_ , like they’re fucking _animals_.”

The sheer hatred in Rick’s voice nearly made Daryl take a step backwards, but he held his ground. He deliberately unclenched his fists. “Then how did you get her out?” he asked quietly.

Rick exhaled sharply through his nose and reached up to sweep a hand through his hair. His fingers got caught in the pomade, but he barely seemed to notice.

“I…” He hesitated for an instant, eyeing Daryl warily. “I had a friend. At the hospital. He helped me.” His face darkened. “But I couldn’t save Lori. I wasn’t…”

When Rick trailed off and looked away, Daryl took a step forward. “What happened?”

The nobleman’s eyes snapped back to his, and Rick’s lips pursed. “Never mind. It’s not important,” he replied coldly. “All you need to know is that she’s my daughter, and that’s that.”

Daryl frowned. “Look, I’m sorry about…what happened to your wife. That sucks.” He couldn’t even fathom how Rick had become so attached to his wife’s bastard child, but he wasn’t going to push on that score. The last vestiges of his previous anger flowed out of him at the reassurance that the child wasn’t the result of Rick having some sort of affair with one of his contractors—and at the relief that the man he was slowly getting to know wasn’t an illusion—but an equally strong sense of frustration took its place. “But why the hell did you think you needed to hide the kid from _me_? What the fuck did you think I’d do??”

Rick glared at him, then sighed heavily. “Look. None of us knew whether or not you’d actually work out with us here. On the off chance that you didn’t, the less you knew about me or my family, the better.”

Daryl flinched, inexplicably stung. “Didn’t work out here? I knew I was on fucking probation or whatever, but you’ve considered _selling_ me?”

Rick quickly shook his head and raised his hands placatingly. “No, no, nothing like that. I just…” The lord closed his eyes, aggression abruptly dissipating. Turning to the side, he leaned his hips against the desk and folded his arms over his chest, chin pointed down. He continued in a low voice. “We all want you to stay, Daryl, but…there are things we haven’t told you.”

Daryl snorted and folded his own arms over his chest. “Yeah, no _shit_.”

“Things we _couldn’t_ tell you,” Rick insisted. He opened his eyes and looked at Daryl. “Not until we knew if we could trust you.”

“Trust me not to turn in an illegal baby?” he spat out. “Right, because I’m clearly a supporter of all the government’s bullshit rules. I’m the kinda guy who’d rush right out and tell the fucking _papers_.”

Rick’s gaze sharpened. “You’re saying that you support my decision to keep her?”

“Fuck, man, _I_ don’t care. I’m saying that I think it’s bullshit that the government has control over that at all! That they can just sentence anyone they fucking want to _death_. Your kid, your _wife_ …” He took several steps forward, coming to a stop in from of the nobleman. “They’ve destroyed my life, they took your wife’s life, and your daughter is _fucked_. Everyone in this fucking manor has been _ruined_ by this government. So you know what? Yes, I’m glad you found a way to spare the kid’s life. What I _don’t_ understand is why you aren’t doing anything _more_ about it!”

“Like what?” Rick challenged. “What _exactly_ do you think I should be doing?”

Daryl threw his arms up in the air. “I don’t fucking know! You’re the one with the power, the resources. The _influence_. Sure, your buying people is probably helping a little, but what about all the poor bastards you haven’t been able to save? And what’ll happen to us if something happens to you? You won’t free us from our contracts, so without you, we’re still fucked. If you care about us like you say you do…” He ran a hand through his hair and then gestured angrily with it. “What the hell, man?”

Rick slowly straightened up off the desk, his eyes focused like lasers on Daryl. “Is that what you would do, given the chance? You’d fight back?”

Daryl glared at him. “Hell yeah I would, if I thought it would make the slightest fucking difference.”

“You’d risk your life for it? The lives of the people you know? The people you care about?” Rick leaned in, intensity filling his voice. “Would you kill or die for the chance to fix our country, if you knew you could make a difference?”

Daryl paused, eyes narrowing. “You’re fucking asking me seriously, aren’t you? If I were you, with your resources, yeah, I’d fight back.”

“But what about _you_ , Daryl? As you are now?”

Daryl frowned. “The fuck are you talking about? I’m a piece of _property_. What difference could I make?”

“If you could, _would you?_ ” Rick pressed.

Daryl shifted his weight again. If he could make a difference in all this, if he could stop people like Maggie or Carol or Dale from being stolen from their lives and sold off to the highest bidder? Yeah, he’d fucking fight. But what could he, a damn near literal nobody, do against a monolithic government like this? Daryl had spent his entire life not being useful to anyone. He doubted that was ever going to change.

But…hypothetically, if he _could_ make a difference…

After a long silence, Daryl nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, I would. I don’t see how that could be possible, but…I’d fight, if I could.”

Rick gave him a long, scrutinizing look, almost as if he were gazing straight through Daryl to the parts that made up his whole. The redneck stopped himself from fidgeting, meeting the nobleman’s stare. Eventually, Rick nodded.

“Good to know.” He dropped his eyes, turning his face away. After a long moment, he picked up his glass of whiskey, rolled it gently between his fingers, and tossed the entire shot back. Rick cleared his throat loudly after he swallowed. Still refusing to meet Daryl’s gaze, he reached for the bottle, uncapped it, and poured himself another shot. “I know that you don’t trust me, Daryl. I get it. You’re not an idiot, and I’ve obviously been withholding some facts from you.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t reply. Rick took a long draw from his glass.

“But don’t think that just because I was born into money, I don’t care about things like Pacification and this contractor bullshit,” Rick continued. The nobleman’s jaw clenched. “I see people as _people_. Despite how it looks, I would never buy someone just to have sex with them. I don’t care what the law says, rape is fucking rape. Are we clear?”

Daryl cleared his throat. “I…yeah. I get it.”

Rick grimaced and tossed back the rest of his shot. Shooting Daryl a brief glance, Rick swept behind his desk and rustled the papers on it. He selected a few and held them out towards Daryl. When the other man didn’t move, Rick waved them impatiently. Hesitant, Daryl stepped forward and took the sheets. He looked down, noting the stiff parchment and formal letterheads. Frowning, he began to read.

_“My dearest Lady Alberich, I thank you for supporting my cause at the last Meeting of the Lords. To answer your question, yes, I do intend to voice my concerns over the spread of Pacification at the next State Session—”_

He flipped that letter to the bottom and glanced at the next.

_“—The economy of our great state is under peril, and only the repeal of certain Pacification laws can alleviate the pressure we have placed on upstanding citizens—”_

Daryl’s frown deepened, and he continued shuffling through the documents. Each one was a letter to some member of the nobility or a politician. Rick was campaigning against Pacification? A small wisp of shame niggled at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. He couldn’t be expected to _know_ that Rick was trying to help people out if nobody ever told him. Lowering the papers, he furrowed his eyebrows and met Rick’s gaze.

“Why’re you showing me this?” Daryl asked. Rick’s blue eyes blazed.

“To show you that you’re not the only one willing to fight.” Rick’s eyes narrowed, and his lips twitched upwards in a humorless smile. “And I’m willing to go to lengths that you might not expect. So just…do me a favor, and stop assuming the worst about me? Try to have some faith in me?”

Catching the strain in Rick’s voice, Daryl nodded jerkily. He stepped forward to set the papers back down on Rick’s desk. When he lifted his eyes to the nobleman, he flashed him a weak, brief smirk.

“No promises, but I’ll try.”

Rick snorted. “I’ll take what I can get, I guess.” He poured himself another drink. Daryl frowned, but he refrained from commenting, a slight curl of guilt settling in his stomach. Rick knocked it back, then stared at his glass with a stony expression. As a heavy silence began to settle upon them, Daryl took a step back.

“I…look. I’m not going to tell anyone about your daughter, okay?” Daryl shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d never sell out a kid. If…” He trailed off, deciding not to voice the rest of his statement. _If you knew me at all, you’d know that already._ Daryl shook his head ruefully. “Trust goes both ways, right? If you start trusting me, I’ll return the favor.”

Rick didn’t respond, his eyes locked on his empty glass. When Daryl turned away, however, the nobleman spoke.

“I have a son, too.” Daryl’s head snapped back. Rick grimaced. “He’s legitimate, so there are no legal issues surrounding him. He’s fourteen.”

Daryl bit back his instinctive reply of, _What the FUCK, man!_ Instead, he gritted his teeth and nodded.

“Can’t say I understand why you’re so paranoid, but for what it’s worth, your kids are safe with me.” Daryl hesitated. “Does everyone else know about them?”

Rick nodded. Daryl bit back another comment. _Trust, Daryl_ , he reminded himself firmly. _The bastard’s trying to trust you._ Daryl took a deep breath.

“Well, like I said, they’re safe with me. I ain’t gonna turn on children,” he stated firmly.

Rick finally met his eyes. Something dark and angry lurked within them, but somehow, Daryl didn’t think it was aimed entirely at him. Rick’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he finally replied, “I believe you.”

Daryl nodded, looking away and reaching up to rub the base of his neck. He shot a quick glance at the bottle of whiskey. As he watched, Rick's fingers wrapped around the neck of it.

"You planning on getting drunk?" he joked weakly. Rick glared at him.

"Yes. I am."

Daryl considered it, but he couldn't come up with a reply to that one. He rubbed a hand on his pant leg.

"I'll, um." Daryl shook his head. _I got nothing._ Shuffling awkwardly, he turned to leave the office. At the last moment, he glanced back at the other man. Rick was glaring down at the bottle in his hand, looking angry, but not defeated.

As Daryl walked away, he heard more alcohol splash into Rick's glass.

* * *

 

Rick sipped at his drink, thoughts churning in his head. After a few moments, he set the bottle down and strode over to a small black panel on the wall. He pressed several buttons in quick succession, highlighting the rooms he wanted. Grimacing, he pressed a button for public broadcast.

“I need the council to gather in my office ASAP. Michonne, that includes you,” he intoned into the tiny microphone. His voice echoed from nearby speakers in the room. “Put down whatever you’re doing and meet me here.”

Rick paced quietly in his office as he waited for the others to arrive. For the first time, it felt cramped.

Now that Daryl knew about his kids, they'd have to shorten their time frame significantly. He believed Daryl, but the man could give something away without meaning to, just by virtue of not knowing what was at stake. They'd have to consider telling him everything. Either that, or confine him to the grounds again, just to reduce the risk of him talking to someone outside of their circle. Rick grimaced. Neither option was particularly pleasant.

Telling him everything would be a big risk, and he knew it. They’d only known Daryl for a month. Granted, some people had been welcomed into the fold more quickly, but others had taken far longer. They couldn’t afford to make a mistake now, not when they were finally starting to pull everything together. The council had met several times since Daryl had first arrived to discuss his attitude and potential, and so far things had been moving smoothly, but…

But now Daryl knew about Judith. As far as the government knew, Judith was dead. Bob had forged her death certificate perfectly, and he’d filed it just to protect Rick and his family, even though it put the doctor at risk. If the governor or the police were to find out that Judith lived, they’d try to storm in here to take her. Illegitimate children were one of the many banes to a “civilized society,” as the papers called them. As long as these laws stood, Judith could never set foot outside the manor’s walls.

She deserved better.

Rick came to a stop, and he rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. _I just wish I could’ve saved Lori, too…_ Impotent rage welled up within him again, and he had to wrestle it back down. _At least the bodyguard who sold us out is rotting in hell,_ he thought viciously.

And Daryl. It had taken every ounce of control that Rick had to keep from trying to strangle him. He liked the man, in a general sense, but his insinuations about the mother of his child had pushed Rick right to the edge. Even after two years, Lori’s betrayal and death were gaping, raw wounds in his soul, and he’d always done his best to ensure that no one under his roof felt threatened. To have his wounds dug into and his efforts to be a good man challenged all at once had been like bathing in acid. He understood where the man was coming from, he really did, but it would be nice to have some _faith_ from the man, just once!

Closing his eyes, Rick took a deep breath and forced his anger back into the depths of his mind, shutting it down as he’d learned to do long ago. He couldn’t afford to let his bruised pride affect the conversation to come. One of his secrets was out—they had to deal with it and with Daryl now, before things got any worse.

In the midst of his dark, brooding thoughts, Michonne stepped into the room. Her katana was sheathed, and her eyes were hard and worried. When Rick looked up, she frowned at him.

“Rick, I’m sorry,” she started, “I tried to convince Carl to stay on his floor, but he wasn’t having it. He wanted to take Judith down to the library, and I…I didn’t have the heart to say no.”

Rick sighed and shook his head. “I’d hoped that our little outing today would’ve cured his wanderlust, but apparently not.”

“A quick trip to the park doesn’t really make up for a month of being kept inside and out of sight,” she agreed dryly. “He’s restless, Rick.”

“I know,” Rick exhaled. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not his fault. Neither of you could’ve known that Daryl would decide that _today_ was the day to start poking around.”

She acknowledged his comment with a tilt of her head, lips twisted. “He never did see either of them, though.”

Rick grimaced. “I told him about Judith.”

Glenn chose that moment to walk in, with Hershel, Dale, and Carol close on his heels. Glenn’s eyebrows shot up.

“You did what?” he asked incredulously.

Rick shook his head ruefully. “We have a situation. Daryl found out about Judith. I told him…some of the truth.”

Carol frowned contemplatively. “So he knows she’s illegal?”

Rick nodded shortly. “He does. And then he went off on me about how I should be doing more to strike back at the government.”

Hershel’s snowy eyebrows rose, and he limped further into Rick’s office. He closed the door behind him and stepped around a stack of papers on the floor by the wall. He leaned against a wooden filing cabinet.

“Did he now?” Hershel asked softly. “That’s interesting.”

“Do you think he was serious?” Glenn prodded.

Rick nodded. “That’s why I called you all together. I think we're going to have to make a decision about him.”

Michonne frowned. “What exactly did he say?”

“That if he could make a difference, and if he had the resources that I had available, he would fight. Personally, I believe him.”

Folding her arms over her chest, Carol gave them all a thoughtful look. “Daryl’s said similar things to me, too. He really does seem to hate the government.”

Dale scratched at his beard. “I’ve gotten the same impression. He does seem like a match, I’m not gonna lie.”

“I’d agree with that,” Hershel murmured.

“But can we trust him?” Michonne challenged. Her voice was mild, but her expression was tense. “I haven’t spent any time with him, but I’d like to know if all of you honestly feel like we can place our faith in him this soon.”

Glenn, who’d been quietly pacing with one hand rubbing his chin, looked up. “Every person I’ve talked to about him has mentioned how angry Daryl gets on their behalf. If he says he’s willing to fight, I might buy that. Besides…we don’t really have much more time to waste tiptoeing around him. Our training schedule is completely unbalanced. I say we get this over with. He joins us, or he leaves. Now, before he learns anything else.”

Carol turned to look at Michonne. "Are you comfortable with us making a decision like this when you haven’t gotten to know him yet?"

Michonne tipped her head in acknowledgement. "I'd like to get a feel for him. You all say he's one of us. If we don’t have time for him to prove it to me…” She trailed off and looked at Glenn, who grimaced and waggled his hand in a maybe/maybe-not fashion. “I’d like to hear your impressions of him. We should at least hash out what we know of him.”

Dale scratched at his beard. “And if we all agree on him?”

Glenn looked up at the ceiling, his expression pensive. “We’ll have to move forward. We'll ask him the three questions, and we'll go from there."

Michonne nodded sharply. "How long do you think we have?"

Glenn grimaced. "My reports are telling me that the Governor is cooking up something nasty. We need to start preparing, and it's hard to do that with someone out of the loop."

Michonne shrugged. "Fair enough."

Rick watched them both, then turned to the rest of the group. “Alright. Let’s get this done, then.” He smiled grimly. “I hope nobody planned to sleep tonight.”

Weary smiles flashed in response. Glancing down at his glass, Rick set it down on the far end of his workspace and tucked the bottle away in a cubby beneath his desk. The rest of the council gathered in around him.

Their low voices murmured on into the night.

* * *

 

Daryl tossed and turned in bed, his conversation with Rick rolling around in his head.

Trust. That’s what Rick had asked of him. The nobleman didn’t trust _him_ , not completely, despite giving him access to most of his home and allowing him out into the world, where Daryl could theoretically make a run for it. What was the man hiding that was so important that he’d hide his kids from the new guy? Was that a nobility thing, or was it Rick, specifically, who was so paranoid? Was he paranoid because of his wife being killed?

Huffing, Daryl threw an arm over his face. _And that wife of his. He said that the government killed her, but…she was a noblewoman. People tend to notice when that shit goes down. How did they get away with it, “immoral behavior” or not?_ He groaned. _And why the fuck do I care?_

The conversation continued to needle him, and Daryl chased it around and around in his head. Trust. Why was it so fucking important to them all? In a general sense, he could understand, but these people were unnaturally secretive. He liked them, but...

He grimaced, pressing his arm more firmly into his face. He legitimately liked the people he'd met at the manor, secrets or not. They were warm and friendly, and they didn't give a shit about Daryl's worthless background. Aside from not telling him what the hell was going on, they treated him like he was one of them. Nobody ever did that, even in his home town, where everyone had been dealt a shit hand in life. What made these guys so different?

Hell, even Rick put up with his shit. He never complained when Daryl joined him by his little garden, even when he accidentally fucked up and tore some roots or pulled out a plant he shouldn't have. Rick took it all in stride, even though he'd never asked Daryl for help. Hell, he’d never asked Daryl for anything.

Inhaling sharply, Daryl peeled his arm off his face and stared up at the dark ceiling, moonlight painting odd pictures on the white plaster. Rick had never asked him for anything, not once since Daryl met him.

Not until tonight, when he'd asked Daryl to have some faith in him.

Groaning quietly, he rolled over and buried his head in his pillow.

Maybe this bullshit would make sense in the morning.

***

A loud beeping noise from his door woke Daryl with a start, and he flailed momentarily in his bed. He blinked blearily at the door, frowning in confusion. A previously unnoticed panel on the wall beside his doorjamb lit up.

“Daryl, could you meet me in my office, please?” Rick’s weary voice emitted from a hidden speaker. Daryl jumped reflexively.

Cautiously, Daryl shoved his bedclothes aside and got to his feet, walking over to the panel. He leaned to the side as he looked it over, then bit his lip. _Am I supposed to press a button or something?_ _We didn’t have this shit in my house_ , he mused grumpily. Awkwardly, he waved a hand in front of the panel, and a red light flicked on at the bottom of the screen.

“Uh, Rick?” He leaned down, frowning. The screen had flashed a brief caption on it, stating, “microphone in use.” The caption disappeared once he stopped speaking.

“It’s important, Daryl,” Rick replied. “Please.”

Daryl scratched at the top of his head, then shrugged. “Uh yeah, sure. I’ll be down in a minute.”

The panel went dark. Confused, Daryl decided to skip his usual morning routine and threw some clothes on. As he made his way downstairs, his frown deepened.

Was this about his confrontation with Rick the night before? They’d both been angry, obviously, and Daryl had accused Rick of some unsavory things—or at least, heavily implied them—but he didn’t think Rick would try to discipline him for it. His lips twisted. Rick asked for faith? Daryl would try to give it to him.

Daryl made his way to the bottom of the stairs, and he glanced into the kitchen. Beth was sitting at a mostly empty table, nibbling on a muffin. The kitchen was quiet, empty of the usual hiss of frying breakfast meats. As he passed the wide doorway, Dart peeked at the counter and stovetop, but Carol was nowhere in sight. Frowning, Daryl moved on.

After walking down several silent hallways, Daryl reached the closed door to Rick's office. He lifted his hand, hesitated, and then rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood. The door swung open almost immediately.

Daryl blinked in surprise at Hershel, who was leaning slightly on the doorknob. The older man moved aside, gesturing for Daryl to enter. After Daryl stepped inside, frowning, Hershel quietly shut the door. Carol, Dale, Glenn, and Michonne were fanned out around the room, all of them looking tired and rumpled. Rick was stationed behind his desk, his expression stoic.

Daryl automatically narrowed his eyes at the woman who’d pointed a sword at him the night before, and she stared coolly back at him in return. Before Daryl could say anything to her, Rick leaned forward to press his palms flat again the polished wood of his desk, catching Daryl's attention. The others remained quiet. Daryl eyed Rick uncertainly.

“Somethin’ going on that I should know about?” he asked uneasily. Rick’s lips twitched.

“Yes, actually. And I needed a little help telling it.” He nodded at the others.

Daryl eyed them. “And…why is that?”

Rick gave him a once-over, then twisted his lips into a wry smirk. “Because if they weren’t here to vouch for me, I doubt you’d believe me.” Daryl narrowed his eyes at the nobleman, but Rick just waved a hand. “But first, I have a few questions for you.”

Daryl took his hands out of his pockets and unconsciously widened his stance. “Yeah?”

Rick briefly locked eyes with Hershel, then returned his gaze to Daryl’s. “How many Walkers have you known?”

Daryl frowned. “Before they were Pacified?” Rick nodded. “I…three. People from my town. One was a sadistic asshole, but the other two didn’t deserve it. They were good people.”

Rick nodded slowly, glancing at the others. He continued, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Daryl scowled, clenching his fists. “No, I ain’t never killed anyone.”

The lord stared at him, blue eyes focused intensely. “If you had to, would you be willing to?”

Daryl paused at that. Slowly, he turned to look at the serious faces around him. These people had welcomed him into their midst, tried to help him adjust to his new life. Even though they’d been hiding something from him, he knew they were good people. Lips flattening into a thin line, he turned back to Rick.

“To protect people? Yeah, I would,” he answered gruffly.

The others in the room looked at each other for a long moment. One by one, they nodded. Michonne hesitated for a moment, and then she nodded as well. Rick straightened, leaving one hand upon his desk.

“All right. Daryl, we’re going to level with you, but you have to understand something. What I’m going to tell you puts a lot of lives at risk. Once I tell you, you’re not going to have many options. Is that clear?”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t exactly have a lot of options _now_.”

“You do, son. More than you know,” Hershel put in, his voice soft. When Daryl turned to look at him, Hershel gave him a gentle smile. “You can walk away from us right now, in a manner of speaking.”

Startled, Daryl swung his head back to Rick. “You’d free me?”

Rick grimaced. “Not…immediately. I can send you to a safe place to work off your contract. You’d be set free after a few years.”

“A _safe place_ ,” Daryl repeated suspiciously. “What, I’m not safe here?”

A thick silence filled the room. After a long moment, Rick lifted the hand he’d rested on the table, stopping when only the pads of his fingers were touching the dark wood. He tapped the desk a few times.

“No, you’re not,” Rick confirmed quietly. “None of us are.”

“Because we’re doing something important,” Glenn chipped in. Rick tipped his head in his direction.

“What he said. It’s important, Daryl, but…it’s not something you’re a part of. Not yet. You can choose to stay out of it.”

Daryl glanced around the room. The lot of them were up to something that put all of them in danger? A light suddenly flicked on in his mind, and his eyes widened involuntarily.

“Are you people _rebels_?” he asked incredulously. When they just looked at him silently, he shook his head. “Are you fucking _crazy?_ ”

“We’re not crazy, Daryl,” Carol stated firmly. “We have a plan, and it’s a good one.”

“You said that if you had my resources, you’d do something about the sick things our government has been doing,” Rick added. “Well, I am. _We_ are. And we’d like you to help us.”

Daryl stared at him. “Me. What the fuck do you think I’d be able to do to help _you_?”

“People of a like mind can do incredible things, son,” Hershel responded. “Everyone in this manor has the same story. Even though we all come from different backgrounds…” He waved a hand at the rest of the room. “We all ended up here, one way or another. Alone, none of us has the skills we need to change our world for the better. But _together_ , we just might be able to.”

“Every person counts,” Rick agreed. “I’m sure you know things that none of the rest of us do. Every little bit can help us.”

Daryl looked around at the earnest faces surrounding him. Everything was starting to make sense—Rick’s strange questions the night that he brought Daryl home, asking if Daryl wanted his life to mean something. The way everyone constantly kept an eye on him, insisting that trust was key. The level of camaraderie between the servants, and the rapport between Rick and his contractors. The fact that every single person Daryl had met at the manor had been screwed over by the government.

“You’ve been building a fucking army,” Daryl realized aloud. He glanced at each person, but none of them looked away; each person in the room met his gaze calmly. What kind of plan could they possibly have that wouldn’t be suicidal? “You’re all willing to die for this?”

“A million things could kill you. In this world, bumping into the wrong person could cost you your humanity,” Hershel replied dryly. “Am I willing to risk my life for a better world for my girls to live in? Yes, I am. And so are they.”

Daryl quietly absorbed that. “And you want me to risk my life, too,” he noted.

Rick frowned. “You don’t have to, Daryl. I won’t ask anyone to fight with me who doesn’t want to.” Daryl’s eyebrows rose at Rick’s choice of words, but the nobleman continued. “If you want out, I have a friend who runs a nursing home. He takes in some of the people that don’t quite fit in with us here, or who have family members they’re worried about, and they help him take care of the elderly. The patients there have all been abandoned by their families.” Rick gave Daryl a serious look. “You can still help people, still be useful, if that’s what you want. And nobody will ever know that you were a part of this.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened. “Except your buddy there would probably be watching me like a hawk, making sure I didn’t blab to anybody, right?”

Rick shrugged. “It’s not a perfect solution, but you wouldn’t be the first to take us up on it. At least you wouldn’t be in the line of fire.”

Daryl took a long, measured breath, and he glanced out the wide office windows. In the early morning light, he could see T-Dog walking along the platform behind the wall. As Daryl watched, T-Dog met up with Karen, and they smiled at each other. They both turned and started back in the opposite direction, each trusting the other to have their back, despite the fact that the only connection they had was this place and their cause. Could Daryl really fit in with that? Could he really contribute to what these people implied was a well-oiled machine?

Could he really have a chance to help make sure that nobody else ended up in his situation? That no other pure souls like Beth or Patrick ended up half-naked and sick with fear on an auction block?

Gritting his teeth, Daryl turned back to Rick. “You ain’t just working on taking down Pacification, right?”

Rick met his gaze without flinching. “Daryl, I plan to tear the whole fucking system down. No more auctions, no more contracts, no more slavery, and no more _Walkers_. It’s everything, or it’s nothing.”

Daryl glanced around once more. “And all you crazy fuckers are on board?”

Glenn smirked. “What else are we gonna do, stick our thumbs up our asses and hope society wakes up? Not happening.”

Michonne snorted. “Some fucked up people started all this. I plan to make them pay for it.”

“As do I,” Dale agreed, rubbing at his chin.

“And me,” Carol followed, her eyes dark with repressed anger. “They’ll all pay for it. Nobody’s going through this again, not if I have anything to say about it.”

Daryl nodded slowly. Turning back to Rick, he eyed the nobleman and shook his head. “I still think you’re all crazy, but…” He thought of the Walkers he’d seen, the children and broken men and women locked in filthy pens, waiting to be sold. His stomach twisted. Tipping his chin up, he finished, “If you really think I can help you put an end to all this…I’m in.”

Rick regarded him with a long, intent look. “Even with Merle still out there?”

Daryl flinched internally at the mention of his brother. Merle _was_ still out there, but…Daryl knew his brother. If Merle ever found out about a rebel organization, even if he agreed with them, he’d still sell them out to the highest bidder. He didn’t care enough about his own blood to step forward for the crimes he’d committed. Merle Dixon would never risk his neck on a bunch of strangers. Exhaling sharply, Daryl shook his head.

“Merle has nothing to do with this,” he decided grimly. “You want me? I’m in. For all that it’s worth.”

Slowly, Rick’s features relaxed, and a faint smile touched his lips. “It’s worth something, Daryl. Trust me.” He glanced around. “Are we all agreed?”

After a moment, everyone in the room nodded. Apparently satisfied, Rick reached out, extending his palm for a handshake. Daryl eyed it, then tentatively extended his own and clasped it. Glenn abruptly stepped forward and clapped both men on the shoulder, grinning at Daryl.

“Welcome to the Resistance, you crazy asshole.” His grin widened at Daryl’s glare. “Don’t worry, you’re in good company.”

Grimacing, Daryl released Rick’s hand. He kept himself from self-consciously wiping his palm on his pants. “Yeah, sure.”

Glenn waved his grumble aside. “We’ll add you to the training roster tomorrow. I’ll have to introduce you to the other trainers—they’ll want to figure out your weapon proficiencies, and…”

As Glenn began to ramble on, Daryl watched him with growing incredulity. The Asian man was never exactly quiet in the past, but Daryl had never seen him speak with this much energy. Daryl glanced at Rick, but the other man simply shrugged. Frowning, Daryl let Glenn lead him out of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl saw Michonne lean in towards Rick, asking him a question. The bearded man glanced at Daryl, then looked back at Michonne and nodded. She straightened, spearing Daryl with a sideways glance. After a moment, she gave him a short, wary nod. Daryl’s frown deepened, but he let himself be dragged away.

***

As Daryl left, Michonne leaned close to Rick.

"You’re sure about this? We can trust him?" She frowned. "You think we can trust Carl and Judith's safety with him?"

Rick glanced at her, then nodded shortly. "We'll have to take it one step at a time, but I don't think he's a threat. Not right now, anyway. We'll just have to keep an eye on him."

"You mean _I'll_ have to keep an eye on him," she returned dryly. Rick's lips quirked upwards.

"Just don't be too hard on him, okay?" he pleaded gently. "Acting like he's seconds away from murder isn't exactly going to inspire his loyalty, you know."

Michonne's eyebrows furrowed. "I was hard on everyone else, too, you know. They all proved themselves to us."

"Well, now Daryl will have a chance to do the same." Rick placed a hand on her shoulder and dipped his head slightly to look her in the eyes. "You know I value your judgment, especially when my kids are concerned. Just give him a chance, okay?"

Michonne tipped her head in acknowledgement. She raised a hand to finger the hilt of her sword, smirking faintly.

"He'll get his chance."

Despite his exhaustion, Rick found a small smile working its way onto his face. "You aren't going to cut his arms off or anything, are you?"

Michonne smirked. "Only if he gets feisty."

Rick snorted. Michonne's smile faded slowly, and her eyes unfocused.

"I won't let any harm come to those kids, Rick," she stated quietly. "I won't."

Rick gave her shoulder a brief squeeze and dropped his hand. "I know, Michonne. I know."

* * *

 

Milton fiddled absentmindedly with his gloves as he looked at the Walker—he shook his head fiercely—at the naked Pacified on the table in front of him. Its right arm ended in an inexpertly sutured stump, and a wire mesh covered the Pacified's shaved head, collecting signals from its brain and transmitting them to the monitor standing beside the table. Milton readjusted the helmet on his head, checked to make sure that his thick apron was in place over his scrubs, and stepped forward, glancing briefly at a nearby camera to check if it was recording. Spotting the red light, he nodded to himself.

"May 16th, 2030 hours, trial specimen number twelve," he stated clearly. "Subject is male, 175 centimeters tall, 84 kilograms. Time since Pacification is approximately twelve days."

Milton stepped past the Pacified and snagged a trolley laden with tools. He pulled it over to the table, mentally tallying the items at his disposal. He looked over at the Pacified, which was staring blankly at the ceiling. Milton's lips pursed for a moment.

"Pacified, do you hear me?" He watched the monitor as he asked, watching as the brain sluggishly lit up. The Pacified's eyes remained pointed where they were, but it gave him a slow nod. "Good. When I tap your hand, I want you to blink. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

Milton paused for a moment, then tapped the Pacified's hand. It blinked obligingly, and the monitor lit up as sensation registered in the brain. Milton slowly shifted his hand, and he gave the Pacified a short tap on its bicep. The monitor lit up once more, but the Pacified didn't blink.

"Very good. The subject understands prompts," he related to the camera. "The sensation of touch has survived the Pacification process."

Having covered his baseline, Milton picked up a scalpel. "I'm going to cut you on the hand."

The Pacified didn't respond. Milton lowered the scalpel to its skin and applied pressure, slicing a fine line in its hand between the tendons of its fingers. Blood welled up. The monitor lit up, but the brain signals matched those created by a simple tap. Nodding contemplatively to himself, Milton wiped off the blade and set it aside.

"Subject displayed no reflexive movements," Milton remarked aloud. He picked up a circular saw, frowned, and held it out in front of the Pacified’s face. “Do you know what I am going to do with this?”

The Pacified stared blankly at the saw, then slowly shook its head.

“Do you remember me doing this to you before?”

It shook its head again.

“The subject does not recall the…therapy it was given prior to Pacification,” Milton noted. Stepping back, he lowered the protective shield attached to the front of his helmet. He flipped the switch on the saw. As it roared to life, he glanced at the Pacified’s other arm. He hesitated, the image of the stump digging into his memories, dragging up the sounds of the man’s screams. Remembered bile rose up in his throat, and he reflexively turned the saw back off. He swallowed hard and lowered his gaze to the sterile, steel floor of his lab.

 _It had to be done_ , he reminded himself sternly. _I had to establish a pre-Pacification baseline. It’s the only way to be sure._ Milton took a deep breath. _The Governor will want these results. You have to be **sure**._

Before he managed to mentally gird his loins for the procedure, a sharp knock rapped against the door to his lab. Startled, Milton set the saw aside and swept up the shield in front of his face. The door was opened cautiously, and the Governor peeked inside, one eyebrow raised. Apparently satisfied that blood wasn’t flying haphazardly around the room, the Governor stepped confidently into the laboratory and shut the door. He gave Milton a gentle smile, his eyes hard and glinting.

“And how are things going down here?” he drawled. “Any updates you care to share?”

Milton swallowed hard, glancing nervously at the Pacified on the table. “My experiments are proceeding, sir. My previous trials strongly suggest that humans, once Pacified, are no longer capable of feeling pain.”

The Governor hummed thoughtfully and stepped closer, gazing down his nose at the naked Pacified on the table.

“But you’re not sure?” he replied, a dangerous thread in his voice. Milton fidgeted with the edge of his apron.

“Not yet, sir. The, ah, subject you’re looking at will be my first pre- and post-Pacification comparison,” he answered nervously. “After this, I should know more.”

The Governor peeled his eyes off the Pacified and turned his head, giving Milton a sideways glance. “I should hope so,” he returned easily. “I didn’t appreciate having to Pacify more of my thinkin’ staff just because they wandered down here two weeks ago while you were working.” He smiled. “Although I suppose it’s better than letting them suffer through nightmares, am I right?”

Milton flinched, catching the unspoken threat. “I ordered more soundproofing, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” The Governor walked up to his assistant and placed a hand on his shoulder. Milton fought down an instinctive shudder. The Governor’s voice deepened as he continued, “You know that this is for the greater good, right? What you’re doing here…” He waved a hand at the lab table. “You’re helping us forge a brighter future for this country. It’s important.”

Milton nodded, but he dropped his eyes. “Yes, sir. I understand.” The floor gleamed beneath his feet. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” the Governor replied, voice lilting upwards once more. His fingers squeezed Milton’s shoulder. “Speaking of letting me down, have you managed to locate our dear Mr. Dixon’s brother?”

Milton’s breath caught in his chest. A moment’s research had been all that was necessary to discover that Lord Grimes’ newest acquisition, unlike any of his other contractors, actually had family wandering around. Unfortunately, knowing that Merle Dixon existed and _finding_ Merle Dixon were two completely different issues. Milton cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Ah…not yet, sir. Mr. Dixon—I mean Merle, of course—has apparently gone to ground. None of my sources have been able to locate him.” Milton balled up the edges of his apron in his fists, his palms suddenly clammy. “I’m sure that we’ll be able to find him, but it may take some time.”

Milton wasn’t looking at the other man, but he could feel the Governor’s gaze burning holes in his skull. The politician’s fingers dug sharply into Milton’s shoulder, eliciting a quick gasp that Milton couldn’t stifle in time. When he lifted his gaze, eyes wide with fear, the Governor gave him an entirely fake, thoroughly terrifying smile.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do your best. I don’t need our friend Rick to continue being a thorn in my side when the next State Session rolls around, now do I?” The Governor’s smile remained fixed, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. “If there’s any leverage I can pit against him, I’m damn sure going to use it, you understand me?”

Milton nodded hurriedly. “Yes, sir. I’ll find him. I promise.”

“Excellent.” The Governor dropped his hand and stepped back, all aggression suddenly gone. “Then I’ll let you get back to your work. I want you to be _absolutely certain_ that Pacified can’t feel pain, you hear me?”

Milton’s head bobbed. “Of course, sir.”

“Good man.” With a last look at the lab table, the Governor headed towards the door, opened it, and left the lab. The door closed behind him with a faint hiss.

Sighing heavily, Milton slid his hand underneath his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Gritting his teeth, Milton reached up, slammed the protective shield back down over his face, and picked up the circular saw. He flicked the power switch, his eyes grim.

Without hesitation, he lowered the saw onto the Pacified’s wrist. Blood splattered his shield and apron, but the Pacified didn’t flinch. It continued staring up at the ceiling.

On the monitor, its brain gave a weak blip for touch, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to Hetty for reading this through for me and giving me encouragement. Feel free to drop by my [tumblr](http://akaitsume.tumblr.com)!! 
> 
> Concrit welcome!


	5. Risk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This one didn't give me as much trouble as the last, but it pretty much only came out in fits and spurts. Hope you all enjoy it!

Daryl stepped into the kitchen, scratching idly at his goatee. A few members of the household were milling around, carrying various cold breakfast foods and empty dishes. Daryl frowned faintly at them. _Every single one of you is willing to die for this cause? Not one of you has anything to lose?_ One of the men he’d seen patrolling the halls with an assault rifle stepped past him. The burly man briefly locked eyes with Daryl as he passed, his gaze calculating. Daryl’s frown deepened as he watched the man leave.

Real life didn’t always work out the way it did in movies. The “good guys” didn’t always win out against the evil, oppressive bad guys. Everyone in this house was a willing participant in a major felony, if not outright _treason_. Even if they managed to win—impossible as that seemed—there would be consequences. Loads of them. Sure, Daryl had nothing waiting for him, nothing to lose aside from his fuckhead brother, but that couldn’t be the case for everyone, could it?

He exhaled slowly, turning towards the refrigerator. He opened the door and peered inside absently, cold air wafting out and curling around his face. When his stomach churned unpleasantly, Daryl grimaced and shut the door. He shuffled over to the table and sat down heavily. Across from him, Beth peeled her eyes off the window she’d been gazing out of absentmindedly. She stared at him calmly, her expression blank. Daryl’s eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t speak.

 _How can they risk the life of someone so young?_ His frown deepened. _Are they really that sure that they can win?_

Beth stared at him for a few minutes, then tapped her fingers gently upon the scarred wooden table.

“They told you, didn’t they?” she asked quietly.

Daryl blinked at her. “Some of it,” he replied gruffly.

“Are you staying?” Her voice was soft, but her eyes remained steady on his. Daryl shrugged.

“Yeah. I figure if there's something I can do, I'd damn well better do it.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Can't say I get why everyone else is here, though.”

Beth tilted her head. “You're willing to fight, but you don't see why anyone else would be willing to? Why _wouldn't_ we want to fight for a better future? Or _any_ future, really.”

Grimacing, Daryl turned to look out the window at the idyllic, landscaped courtyard. He shrugged. “I guess I assumed that most people would want to play it safe. I mean, I got nothing to live for out there, but I figure most people do.”

Beth was silent for a long moment. Daryl continued glowering out the window. It was true. He’d had no life to speak of before Merle went and fucked everything up, and he couldn’t imagine having a better one if, by some fucking miracle, they actually won. Daryl had absolutely nothing to lose by joining them aside from his life—and even he didn’t place much weight on that. He stifled a sigh. _I can’t expect a teenage to understand that_ , he mused dryly.

Before he could voice that thought, however, a soft hand fell onto his wrist and clasped it gingerly. Startled, Daryl glanced instinctively down at his wrist, then brought his gaze up. Beth was watching him with an odd light in her eyes.

“Sometimes, when things feel that way, a cause can pull you back out. _People_ can pull you out,” she replied confidently. “Even if you can't live for yourself, you can live for someone else.”

Caught off guard, Daryl stared at her for a moment. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

“What, no platitudes about how I have so much to live for already?” he asked wryly.

Her lips twitched in a faint there-and-gone smile. “No. Trust me, if anyone gets it, it's me.”

Daryl twisted in his seat to face her more directly. As he moved, his hand slid underneath her wrist and brushed against her skin. He froze. Slowly, he tugged his arm out of her grip, wrapped his hand around her tiny wrist, and turned it over. A ridge of puckered skin caught the light from the window. He stared at it.

Beth watched him quietly, waiting until he tore his eyes away from her scarred arm and looked up. She tipped her chin up defiantly, meeting his gaze without shame.

“Like I said, I get it. When we were sold, I didn't much see the point in sticking around. I figured it was only a matter of time until I ended up either a sex slave or a Walker. Or both.” Her eyes glinted. “But we came here. We all found a purpose. I found a reason to stick around. And you know what? I'm okay with this.”

Daryl couldn't think of anything to say to that. Her lips twitched faintly again. She leaned forward over the wide table.

In a strong, steady voice, she continued. “The way I see it, this is perfect. I'll either live to see the world become a better place…” She pulled her arm free of his grip. “Or I won't.”

He stared at her, an unfamiliar, sinking sensation filling his stomach. He opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. She gave him a small smile.

“What, no platitudes about how I'm young and have everything to live for?” she teased.

Daryl slowly shook his head. “Not as a contractor, you don't,” he replied in a low voice. His stomach twisted again.

Her eyes flickered back and forth between his. A smirk flashed across her lips.

“But you’re glad I found a reason to stay, right?” she returned easily. He nodded. Beth patted his hand. “Like I said, having a cause may help. And the people here…” Her eyes grew distant for a moment, then sharpened once more. “These people are worth fighting for, Daryl. And they're willing to fight for us, too. We're all in this together.”

He nodded silently. Smiling gently, she gave his hand another pat and stood up.

“I’m glad you're staying,” she stated simply. He nodded again. She picked up a muffin wrapper, turned away from the table, and tossed it into a trash can as she walked out of the kitchen.

Daryl sat in silence, watching as other late-morning stragglers wandered in and out of the kitchen. He hadn’t said it, but…it _was_ pretty fucked up that a young girl, who should have had so much to look forward to, had been handed such a shit hand by life that she’d tried to take her own. He found it hard to believe that anyone in their position could bounce back from that and not only find a reason to stay, but a reason to _fight_. 

 _People and a cause, huh?_ He pressed his lips together. Maybe, if that was enough for him and enough for a young girl with no future, it was enough for everyone else, too. As he sat there thinking, Michonne appeared in the wide entryway to the kitchen, her expression inscrutable. She held a gun in her right hand.

 _Or maybe,_ Daryl mused dryly, _they're all just ticked off enough to fight._

Michonne stepped into the room, eyeing him suspiciously. Daryl uneasily returned the favor. She nodded at him.

“Have you eaten yet?” she questioned him shortly.

Daryl shrugged. “Ain't hungry.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “In that case, you've got no reason not to come out on patrol with me.”

He eyed the gun warily. _I can think of one_. Lips pressed firmly together, Daryl rose from his seat. He nodded at the gun.

“Am I gonna be comin’ _back_ from patrol?” he shot back. Michonne’s eyes narrowed momentarily, and she shifted her hold on the gun, rubbing her thumb against the grip. She tipped her head to the side.

“The gun isn’t for me,” she replied, her expression inscrutable. “Come on.”

Brows furrowed, Daryl stepped around the table and followed Michonne out into the hallway.

“Weren’t you up all night?” he wondered aloud. She shrugged faintly.

“Everyone else is napping. I have better things to do.”

At the end of the hallway, past the stairwell, gloomy morning light was pouring in through the window set in the door that lead outside. Instead of walking out the door, Michonne paused and ducked behind the first flight of stairs. A small, whitewashed wooden door was tucked away in the corner, easy to miss among the surrounding plaster. She gave him a quick once-over, then tugged the door open. Inside, lights were glowing and blinking on a wide array of electronics. Michonne reached in, grabbed a walkie-talkie, and clipped it onto her belt. She grabbed a second one and straightened, glancing over her shoulder at Daryl. After a brief hesitation, she held out the radio.

“We always stay in contact with the house when we go out on patrol,” she told him. He glanced at the walkie-talkie, then reached out and plucked it from her hand. She nodded. “Keep it set to channel 3 today.”

“It changes?” he mumbled as he clipped the radio to his belt. He turned it on and set the channel.

“Every day,” she confirmed. “You’ll have to ask which channel we’re on if you go out again.”

He shot her a quick glance. “You're all very careful, aren't you?”

“We have to be.” Her lips pinched together, but after another short hesitation, she held out the gun. “In case we run into anything out there.”

Daryl stared at her incredulously. She was arming him? He took the gun gingerly, watching her carefully as he did so. Frowning, he looked down at the gun. It was a Beretta, a bit worn but clearly well maintained. Flicking his eyes up to Michonne's, he ejected the clip and took a look at the bullets. Spotting the plugs, he smirked. He looked up, sliding the clip back into place in one smooth motion.

"Blanks, huh?" He flipped the safety off and back on, then chambered a round. "You know blanks can still kill people, right?"

Her lips twitched. "You're not going to get that close to me." Her eyes dipped back down to the gun. "I guess you know how to use that, then."

"Ain't never used a friggin' Beretta before, but I know my way around a handgun." He held up the gun and frowned. "It's not my weapon of choice."

Michonne hummed in reply. She gave him one last glance-over, then gestured at the door leading outside.

"After you," she stated firmly. Daryl obeyed without protest, striding forward and opening the door. The morning air was still cool, a gentle breeze rustling the trees beyond the wall. He waited on the other side, his free hand holding the door open for her. She shut the equipment closet, then fiddled with her radio. Apparently satisfied, she walked towards him, one hand on her belt. She grasped the hilt of a knife, baring a sliver of the blade as she walked past him.

Daryl suppressed a sigh and closed the door behind her. "What makes you so sure that I'm going to try something?"

She kept going, but she glanced over her shoulder at him. "Why shouldn't I assume you're going to?"

"Maybe because I've got nothing to gain by it?" he returned. "I signed on to join your crazy group, didn't I?"

"Could be a front."

Dart snorted. They reached the gate in the south wall. Michonne pressed her thumb against the panel. When the gate opened, they both slid through. Michonne aimed for the thick line of trees to the east of the manor, and Daryl followed at a good distance—far enough away that she couldn't easily reach him with the sword on her back, and a shot fired by him would leave her with little more than a bruise. Once they stepped beyond the first row of trees, he spoke up.

"Even if I had somebody on the outside to tell, I'd never be dumb enough to do it." He scanned the forest, noting the lack of underbrush. Very few saplings were poking out of the ground, and bushes were clumped semi-regularly. The woods were being maintained. He continued, "Even if someone believed me, they'd never believe that I wasn't a part of it. They'd kill me so fast I wouldn't fucking see it coming."

Michonne fanned out to his left, her eyes also sliding carefully over the landscape. She quirked an eyebrow.

"Not many people would realize that," she replied dryly. Daryl rolled his eyes.

"Then they're dumbasses." He walked alongside her in silence for a minute. He spotted a series of tracks in the dirt, two short inside steps followed by two long ones on the outside. A rabbit, and it was moving quickly. He squinted at the ground. He couldn't see the tracks of whatever spooked it. Turning to his right, he noticed a bent branch on a nearby bush, about shin high. A fox, probably. It must've given up when the rabbit made a break for it.

"Is that why you really joined us?" she asked suddenly. "Because you think you have no choice?"

Daryl looked up, frowning. "I told you that I want to help. The government's done nothing but fuck us all over."

"But you think we're crazy."

Daryl shrugged and returned his eyes to the ground. "Sometimes crazy people can make a difference. Besides, I got nothing to lose."

"Your life doesn't count?"

"Not if I don't got one." When she grunted, he fell silent. They combed the forest slowly, gradually heading south. After a few minutes, he looked over at the woman beside him. She was walking with an intense look of concentration on her face, footsteps admirably quiet despite the twigs and leaves scattered underfoot.

After a while, he ventured, "So what's your deal, anyway? Protecting Rick, his kids."

Her eyes flickered over to him, then cut away. "My 'deal'."

He shrugged. "Just curious."

Michonne didn't respond, so Daryl dropped it. A few birds flitted among the branches above them, calling out to each other. A sudden sharp _crack_ made them both freeze. A few seconds later, a deer stepped out from behind a dense knot of trees. Upon spying them, the doe froze. It stared at them with wide eyes, slowly pulling its outstretched leg back. Another heartbeat later, it spun and dashed off into the woods. Daryl and Michonne exhaled simultaneously, then glanced at each other. Wordlessly, they resumed their patrol.

After a half hour of silence, Michonne parted her lips and blew out a long breath.

"Rick and I…" She trailed off, then tried again. "We found each other at a…difficult time for both of us." Her expression darkened briefly before she shook her head. "He needed someone to protect his kids. I needed someone to protect."

Daryl frowned. "A match made in heaven, huh?"

To his shock, she barked out a laugh. She looked surprised as well, but she left a faint smile on her lips as she shook her head.

"It was a match made in hell, more like." Her smile turned into a grimace. "We were both a bit unhinged at the time."

Daryl tore his eyes off her and looked around at the forest surrounding them. "How long ago was this?"

She cut a glance at him. "About two years ago."

Daryl's steps faltered. "When Lady Grimes died."

Michonne glowered at a nearby tree. "When she was murdered, yes."

Daryl spotted a glint of light inside a knot on a tree trunk. His eyebrows furrowed. _A camera?_ Adjusting his grip on his gun, he shifted away from the tree in question.

"What about you?" he eventually asked.

She shook her head. "Maybe some other time. I don't owe you my story."

Despite her words, her tone was surprisingly mild. Daryl grunted. They worked quietly for several minutes, the susurrus of the leaves above swallowing their footsteps. As time went on, the sun finally burst free of its cloud cover, painting the forest floor in dappled sunlight. Almost immediately, the temperature began to rise, bringing on the famed Georgia heat.

A sudden double tap from their radios brought them both to a halt. Sparing Daryl a quick glance, Michonne freed her radio from her belt and tapped the Push-To-Talk button once, sending out a brief burst of static. A few moments later, a male voice that Daryl vaguely recognized came on the line.

"Michonne, you logged out through the south gate. You out on patrol?"

She shared a look with Daryl. "Yeah, I'm out here with Dixon."

"We've got some activity in the south forest, not far from the old well. One Walker, and it's giving off a small EMF reading."

Michonne nodded sharply. "We're on it."

The lithe woman clipped the radio back onto her belt, unsheathed her sword, and broke into a loping trot, moving swiftly but quietly through the forest. Daryl fell into step beside her, his eyes flicking towards her in curiosity. Why was a Walker in the woods? The manor was out in the middle of nowhere. It couldn't possibly be performing any errands out here.

Daryl inhaled sharply, then narrowed his eyes. _Not unless it came here **for** us._

He followed Michonne as closely as he dared, weaving around tight knots of trees and bushes as they headed south. Several minutes later, they came upon an old, stone well, moss and mildew clinging to its worn and broken sides. Michonne and Daryl came to a halt, glancing at each other. A tremendously large, fat Walker was shambling around, clearly unaware of the danger presented by the well it was headed for. With a quick, surveying glance around, Michonne stepped between the Walker and the well and put her hands up. Its slow, dragging steps came to a stumbling halt, and it stared at her passively from sunken eyes. Daryl eyed the Walker, then turned his attention to the rest of the nearby forest, scanning for signs of anyone who may have come with the Walker. He flipped the safety on his gun off.

Michonne moved closer to the Walker, her sword held out to the side. She took a brief look around, then leaned closer.

"Are you here on an errand?" she asked, enunciating carefully. The Walker stared at her. Michonne tried again. "Were you sent here by your owner?"

No response. Michonne grimaced.

"I don't know if he's ignoring me because he's stupid, or if he was ordered not to respond," she stated grimly. Daryl blinked at her use of pronoun.

"'He'?"

Michonne frowned, but she didn't reply. She closed the remaining distance between her and the Walker, then reached out and patted it down. Finding nothing, she began tugging at its clothing. The Walker moved pliantly as she maneuvered its limbs. Its nondescript button-up shirt came off first, and she tossed it at Daryl without looking.

"Check the buttons." Michonne started on the Walker's pants, methodically stripping it. Daryl glowered down at the cheap, poorly made shirt in his hands, but he obligingly looked closely at the small, plastic buttons. There was nothing out of the ordinary on, in, or between them. Frowning, he fiddled with the shirt's cuffs. A tiny, black dot fell out. He tossed the shirt onto the ground, leaned over, and picked it up.

"Check this out." He held up the little black dot, pinching it between his fingers. The black woman's lips flattened.

"Audio recording device," she replied shortly. She bent down as she worked the Walker's pants and underwear down its legs. A brief tap behind each knee in turn was all it needed to lift each leg in turn. As it did, Michonne slipped the bunched fabric and its shoes off in one smooth motion. It began inching away.

Having freed the Walker's pants from its legs, Michonne made a small noise of triumph and straightened. She turned its right pant leg inside out. A slim black square was taped to the inside, just behind the thick seam at its groin. She pulled it free, then smiled grimly.

"Transmitter. Decent range."

Daryl tightened his grip on the gun. "But we're forever away from everything. For anyone to get the signal, they'd have to be fairly close."

She tilted her sword, and it caught a splash of sunlight. Her eyes glinted. "And that's why my sword is out." Her teeth flashed. "A Walker won't hurt you…"

"But the person who sent it might," Daryl finished darkly. "Can we get it to lead us—"

Before he could finish, the Walker sidled up to the well, hit the crumbling edge, and tumbled backwards. Its eyes stayed on them as it fell, expression unchanging. Moments later, it had vanished from sight. Daryl and Michonne stood in stunned silence, punctuated by a harsh splash and a wet, heavy thump. Both of them rushed over to the well, peering down into its dark depths. The Walker was crumpled at the bottom, its neck twisted around violently. Its arms, which were trapped behind its bulk and were pointing up into the air, spasmed heavily. The Walker blinked rapidly in distress, then fell still, staring vacantly up at freedom. Swallowing, Daryl stepped back.

Michonne stared down the well for another minute, then tipped her head back and blew out a breath.

"He was commanded to do that," she announced confidently, anger slipping into her voice.

"How do you know?"

"Did you see the way it watched us on the way down?" she demanded harshly. "First it wouldn't respond to my questions, then it headed straight for the well while we talked…" She scowled, lowering her chin. "It was told to make sure it didn't lead anyone back."

Daryl frowned at the audio recorder in his free hand. "Can we trace it?"

She shook her head, eyebrows furrowed. "Whoever was listening heard us catch the Walker. He must be long gone by now." She rolled the transmitter over in her hands, then flipped a switch. "But at least he can't hear us anymore."

Daryl pocketed the recorder, eyeing the ground. The Walker's steps were surprisingly visible, long marks dragged through dirt, leaves, and twigs. Beside him, Michonne peered down into the well again.

"Getting him out of there is going to be a bitch," she muttered. Daryl flipped his safety back on and cleared his throat. When she looked at him, he gestured at the ground.

"It left some bigass signs," he told her. "It might lead us to our guy after all. Or, at least, the place the guy was waiting."

She eyed him thoughtfully. "Not a bad idea." She unclipped her radio and held down the PTT button. "Dixon and I found the Walker. It was bugged, and it killed itself in the old well. Somebody get out here to pull it out; we're going to trace its steps."

"Can do," came the reply. Nodding shortly, Michonne gestured with her sword as she returned the radio to her belt.

"After you," she invited dryly.

Daryl moved forward, keeping an eye on the Walker's tracks. He glanced back at the black woman.

"You sure you ain't tired yet?" he asked wryly. She snorted.

"Stop worrying about me."

They worked their way steadily through the forest. The Walker's footsteps were so clear that it might as well have drawn a map, Daryl noted irritably. As they walked, Daryl spied several more cameras hidden in trees. He nodded at them.

"All those cameras are ours?" he asked gruffly.

Michonne gave him an odd look, then nodded. "These woods aren't as protected as we'd like. We can track visuals, EMFs, and infrared right from the house."

Daryl's eyebrows furrowed. "And all that's necessary, I'm guessing? This shit happens fairly often?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes. Rick has enemies. People want to know what he's getting up to in the manor. Walkers are the safest way for people to spy on us, I guess.” Her tone grew dry and sarcastic. “Even if they get caught, nobody gets hurt."

Daryl nodded. "Nobody but the Walker."

Her expression darkened, but she said nothing in reply. Daryl refocused on the trail, but his thoughts wandered.

With Walkers in the woods, spying on them, how safe were they? His lips pinched. _Hell, we've got kids in the manor. How far are these enemies willing to go?_

Gritting his teeth in determination, he picked up his pace. Michonne followed closely behind him.

* * *

 

Rick came awake slowly, his face digging into his pillow. His back was prickling, two points of ice that were burrowing into his skin. He flinched instinctively, curling up on his side and pulling the bunched duvet closer to his body. A quiet moan escaped him.

“Not again, not again…” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. The points of ice stayed on his back, but he didn’t roll over. He couldn’t roll over. He knew what he would see. He couldn’t go through it again.

Two more points of ice flared up on his back, making his gasp. Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder. Beside him on the bed, Lori was staring down at him, her eyes wide with fear, anger, and betrayal. She rested a hand on her flat stomach, accusations unspoken. In the corner of the room, another figure shifted. Rick slammed his eyes shut, cringing. He rolled over.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he gasped out. “I didn’t know…” He trailed off. An ice cold hand brushed against his back, making him flinch. “I _tried_ , Lori. I tried. I swear, I thought I could protect you. I really thought I could.”

_“Rick, do you really think they’ll let me back out of the hospital, if…” Lori sighed, then gave him a resigned look. “ **If**?”_

Rick hunched his shoulders beneath Lori’s icy hand.

_“I’ll protect you,” Rick promised. He stared out the window, unable to look his wife in the eye. “I have friends at the hospital. If they have to, they’ll get the baby out, and we’ll get **you** out.”_

_“Rick…”_

_“I don’t care whose baby it is, Lori.” Rick kept his gaze fixed on the window. “We’ll work it out.”_

_She touched his shoulder, making him turn and look at her. She gave him a weary, doubtful smile. “Will we?”_

_Rick nodded, dropping his gaze. He turned to face the window once more. “We will. We have time.”_

“Stop!” Rick pressed a fist to his aching head. “Just stop. I thought we did, Lori. I thought we did.”

Her hand stayed on his shoulder. The cold began seeping deeper into his skin, making his bones ache. With a sudden, violent jerk, he wrenched his shoulder away and rolled forward onto his stomach, pawing at the cubby hole beneath his bedside table. His fingers closed upon the neck of the bottle he kept there, and he yanked it out. He sat up partially, unscrewing the cap with unsteady fingers. A shot glass lay waiting on the table, its gleaming surface free of dust. He clumsily splashed some bourbon into the glass, set the bottle down with a _thump_ , and knocked the glass back. As the alcohol burned its way down his throat, the icy gazes upon his back began to fade. Rick exhaled shakily. He poured himself another drink, downed it, and slammed the glass down upon the bedside table. He picked up the bottle cap from the floor with fumbling fingers, screwed it back on, and stowed the bottle away. He planted his face in his pillow, tugging the duvet up over his head as the last bits of ice dulled and dissipated. Rick squeezed his eyes shut.

 _I loved you_ , he thought despairingly. _I loved you. I’m so sorry._

* * *

 

Daryl stared at the ground, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. The Walker’s tracks had led to a relatively large clearing on the edge of Rick’s property, one so large that the surrounding hills could be seen over the tops of the trees on the far side. A set of wide tire tracks made a loop around the clearing, deeper at the spot next to the first few Walker footprints. He gestured at the sunken tire tracks.

“It must’ve been a big vehicle,” he told Michonne brusquely. “It sank into the dirt while it was waiting, and this ground ain’t that soft.” He looked up, wrinkling his nose in the sunlight. Squinting, he pointed down the trail leading out of the clearing. “Whoever he was, he took off once we found his boy. Doubt we could catch him now.”

Michonne took a long look at the tracks, her face pensive. “At least we can plant more eyes out here. Block off that trail if necessary.”

Daryl nodded thoughtfully, but his frown deepened. “What were they thinking to gain, though?” he wondered aloud. “What good would one Walker do? It’d definitely get spotted before it got to the house, right? Why send it at all?”

Michonne’s eyebrows furrowed, and her grip visibly tightened on the hilt of her katana. “I don’t know, but they keep doing it. Whatever the reason is, it isn’t good.” She turned back towards the house. “I’ll tell Rick that we need to increase our patrols.”

Daryl grunted in reply. With one last look at the heavy, wide tire tracks, he followed Michonne back into the woods.

* * *

 

Tyreese stole a glance at the air conditioner controls as they tore down the highway. Their squad car was relatively new, meaning that, for once, the A/C would probably work. His fingers twitched on his knee.

“Don’t even think about it.” Sasha kept her eyes on the road, but then, she’d always known what Tyreese was about to do before he even tried to do it. He sighed.

“Why not?” he grumbled. Irritably, he rolled down the window instead. “We’re in Georgia, we should at least get to use some A/C when we get the chance.”

“Because a.) I’m actually comfortable for once, and b.) it eats up our mileage,” she replied calmly. She flashed her lights and squawked their siren at a slow driver in their lane. Once they moved aside, she accelerated. Glancing at the speedometer, Tyreese sighed again.

“You realize that you’re complaining about our mileage, but you’re speeding.”

“I need the extra gas so I can get there faster.”

“Of course.” Reclining his seat a bit, Tyreese scratched at his beard and looked out the window. The city had long since vanished behind them, leaving nothing but trees and fields lining the highway.

Sasha never let him drive. She'd gone through the police academy a few years after Tyreese did, and she'd blown almost all of his personal records away. Everyone had expected Tyreese to be angry or jealous of his sister, but...she'd been doing that his entire life. She'd always done what was necessary to stay by her brother's side and protect him. Tyreese didn't exactly _understand_ where she'd gotten the idea that her big brother needed looking after, but she took her assumed duty seriously. If that meant crushing every test that someone put in front of her, so be it. Most of the officers in their station were intimidated by her. Hell, siblings were not supposed to be partnered, but when they were newly minted detectives, the chief tried to pair them with other cops. Sasha had requested a meeting in the chief's office. Ten minutes later, they were partners. That was seven years ago, and the chief still tiptoed around Sasha.

Tyreese thought that his sister was crazy, but she was also, in an understated sense that he would never tell anyone, kind of his hero. He generally kept quiet on the matter and followed her lead.

Sasha slowed down and took an unmarked exit off the highway, proceeding down a narrow road lined with trees. The trees grew closer and closer together as they drove, eventually tangling their branches together above and beside the road. Shrouded in darkness despite the bright afternoon sun, they made their way up the winding road. Eventually, they reached a turnoff and made a left. Sasha drove slowly up a cobblestone lane, her eyes narrowed. The driveway took them up a steep hill, slender wrought-iron lamps stamped into the ground at regular intervals. They lit the gloomy lane with a pale yellow light.

Shifting in his seat, Tyreese frowned. “This is a bit ominous,” he muttered.

Sasha snorted. “From what I hear, it fits the Lady.” She shook her head. “You'd think the chief would have something better for us to do than responding to some rich quack's paranoia call.”

Tyreese shrugged and deliberately faced away from his sister. “Maybe you pissed him off lately.”

“What?” she squawked indignantly. “I have not! I've been a model detective, thank you very much.”

“…What did you do?” he asked wearily.

“Nothing!” she protested vehemently. Tyreese leaned his head back against the headrest, then rolled it to stare at her. Sasha’s lips pursed. “Ok, I may…have told him that his aim could use some work.”

Tyreese raised his eyebrows. “You said what?”

Sasha spread her fingers, keeping her grip on the steering wheel by hooking her thumbs tightly. “I saw him at the shooting range, and…I thought he needed work!” she replied defensively. “Nobody _else_ was going to tell him!”

Tyreese snorted and shook his head. “That’s because everyone else likes their job. You need to stay on his good side, Sasha. We need him to like us, remember? It’s kind of important.”

“He needed to know,” she grumbled irritably. “Whatever. Let’s just get to this lady’s house, reassure her, and get back to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he teased gently. Sasha rolled her eyes at him.

The siblings rode in silence as the car climbed the long, winding driveway. After a few minutes, the tightly pressed trees gave way, fanning out around a tremendous Victorian style home. The driveway looped around a massive fountain, and no gates blocked the impressive view of the sprawling home. Sasha pulled around the loop and parked in front of the house, frowning up at the front door. She put the squad car into park and turned to her brother, sighing.

“You ready?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. When he nodded, she turned off the car, and they both stepped out into the bright sunlight. Sasha adjusted the shoulder gun harness beneath her jacket. She grimaced. “Let’s get this over with.”

Tyreese let Sasha lead the way up the steps, hanging back so that he could peer into the windows. The edges of gauze curtains peeked out of the glass, but he couldn’t see anyone moving around inside. He frowned.

“Didn’t the call say she thought someone was in her house, trying to kill her?” he asked suspiciously.

Sasha nodded as she reached the front door. “Yeah, today, and yesterday, and pretty much every other day for the last two weeks. I think 911 is about to stop taking her calls.”

“You’d think she’d at least put up a gate if she were so worried,” he murmured to himself. Sasha shot him a quick glance. Frowning to herself, she knocked sharply on the front door.

There was no reply. Tyreese and Sasha shared a look. She knocked again. No response. Sasha tried the buzzer. A booming gong rang inside the house, but even after it faded away, nobody appeared to answer the door. Sasha’s hand strayed to the handle of her gun.

“A bit odd that a woman this concerned about her safety wouldn’t have a bodyguard or somebody to answer the door,” she mused aloud. Tyreese nodded, and he reached for the gun in his hip holster. He ran his fingers over the grip.

“Something’s not right here, Sasha,” he agreed.

After one more shared glance, Sasha tried turning the doorknob. To their surprise, it rotated easily within her grasp, and the door swung open. Sasha hesitated, glancing at her brother.

“Lady Alberich?” she called out. “It’s the police. Is anyone home?”

Silence. Exhaling slowly, Sasha drew her gun and held it low, her finger easing the safety off. She cautiously stepped inside the house, scanning the entryway as she did so. Tyreese followed closely behind her, quietly drawing his own weapon. They padded down the hallway, peering into each room as they passed. Antique furniture in dark woods and fabrics filled each room, and old, unlit iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Each room was empty.

Tyreese nodded at his sister, then called out himself.

“Lady Alberich? We’re Detectives Williams and Williams from the Atlanta Police Department. You called us about a possible threat?” His voice boomed in the wood-and-plaster hallways. When nobody replied, a thread of alarm crept through him. He leaned closer to Sasha. “Where the hell is everyone?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Heart pounding with adrenaline, Tyreese followed his sister down the hallway. With each empty, silent room they passed, he grew more and more tense. Finally, at the end of the hallway, they reached a closed set of double doors. The siblings exchanged a quick glance and readied their weapons. Taking a slow breath, Sasha placed a hand on one doorknob. She bobbed her head in a mental countdown, and then swung the door wide open, bringing her gun up in a sharp movement. She stepped quickly inside the room, Tyreese close on her heels.

They both froze.

The room was a massive dining room, a long mahogany table stretching down the length of it. The table was packed with seats, some clearly dragged in from other rooms.

Every seat was filled by a dead body.

Tyreese’s stomach turned, and he found himself slowly lowering his weapon. All of the servants seated at the table had the grey eyes of a Walker, and they were all staring passively straight ahead. At the head of the table, Lady Alberich herself was frozen in a disapproving stare, her face already deathly pale beneath her makeup. Her almond eyes were narrowed. An empty cup sat in front of each victim.

Sasha inhaled sharply, then tugged on Tyreese’s arm. “We have to get out of this room,” she said urgently, leading her unprotesting brother out of the dining room. She swung the door shut behind her, eyes wide with shock and disgust. Tyreese stared at her.

“Sasha, what the hell is going on here?” he blurted out.

She put a hand in the middle of his back and shoved him. “We have to keep moving. I think—I think they were poisoned. And I think Lady Alberich _knew it was happening_.”

Tyreese moved obediently, but his stomach twisted heavily. “She _knew?_ Who would sit still while they were poisoned? _Why_ were they poisoned?”

“We need backup. We need backup,” Sasha muttered under her breath. She strode down the hallway, nearly running towards the front door. “I left prints on that door, but they should still be able to find some if the perps left any…”

“Sasha—” Taking deep breaths to ease his stomach, Tyreese pushed his feelings aside as best he could and considered the chain of events. Lady Alberich was a _very_ high-ranking noblewoman in Georgia. In fact, up until this moment, she’d been the highest ranking noble in the entire state, thanks to the untimely passing of the notoriously ultra-conservative, elderly Lord Brooks over two weeks ago. Unlike Lord Brooks, Lady Alberich was a fan of the anti-Pacification movement, and she was vocal in her support of Rick’s plan to tear down most of the new, permissive laws.

He came to an abrupt halt just inside the front door. Sasha blew past him, still muttering under her breath. _Rick. Lord Grimes. Thanks to this, he’s at the top of the hierarchy now, isn’t he?_ Tyreese swore under his breath. Holstering his forgotten gun, he hustled out the front door and raced around the car. Sasha had already leaned inside, reaching for the radio. Tyreese hurriedly laid a hand over hers, stopping her in her tracks. When she looked up, he leaned in.

“Sasha, she was siding with Rick,” he whispered harshly. “Lady Alberich was his biggest supporter. And now that she’s gone, Rick’s at the top of the nobility food chain.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “… _Fuck_.”

“We have to give him a heads up,” Tyreese insisted quietly. Sasha nodded grimly.

“After I call this in.”

* * *

 

Rick’s phone trilled on his dresser. He paused in the middle of buttoning his shirt, frowning down at it. His head was pounding. Shaking off a faint swell of nausea, he picked up the phone and pressed the button to answer the call.

“Grimes.” He listened silently for a few minutes, then slowly pulled the phone away from his ear. He hung up, his face impassive.

* * *

 

Daryl set his dinner plate in the sink, still resolutely chewing on his last bite of meat. He turned, leaning back against the counter, and folded his arms over his chest. The kitchen and attached dining room were packed with people, all chatting as amiably as any other night. He wondered at them all. The news about the Walker in the woods was sure to have gotten out, but nobody seemed concerned in the least. Were they simply used to the idea of being in danger?

T-Dog came up beside him, and Daryl shifted aside so that the other man could place his own dishes in the sink. The black man gave him a friendly smile.

“I hear you’re with us, now,” he ventured. “I bet it was a bit of a shock, huh?”

Daryl snorted. “A bit of one, yeah.” He eyed the man next to him. “You’re all crazy, you know that, right?”

T-Dog grinned. “And what does that make you?”

“Just as fucking crazy.” He looked around the room. “Did you all hear about the Walker Michonne and I found?”

The man beside him sobered. “Yeah, we did. I’m glad you caught it.”

Daryl shrugged uncomfortably. “Didn’t catch the fucker who sent it, though.”

T-Dog gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it too hard, man. That’s usually how these things go.” He scowled. “Besides, it was probably the Governor behind it.”

Daryl started. “The Governor?”

“Rick’s been opposing his Pacification laws. Who else would it be?”

Daryl hummed in reply. He frowned, abruptly straightening. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen Rick all night. The nobleman was always late to dinner, but he’d never once _missed_ a meal. Where the hell was he? Daryl leaned close to T-Dog.

“Speaking of Rick, have you seen him?” he asked the other man. T-Dog frowned.

“Now that you mention it, no. I haven’t seen him all day.” Without prompting, T-Dog headed over to the PA panel tucked into the corner of the room, trapped between the counter and the first massive window. He pressed a few buttons, then narrowed his eyes. “Rick never signed out of the house today, so he’s still here.”

Daryl looked around. “Then where is he?”

T-Dog shrugged, pulling away from the panel. “I don’t know. I doubt he went far.”

Daryl grimaced. “Great.” He looked around the room once more, trying to shrug off the odd little thread of concern that was winding its way through him. Rick was a lord, the literal lord of the manor, and if he wanted to vanish for the day, that was his right. He was probably fine. Even though he always made a point of spending time with his people. Always.

Daryl sighed, closing his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. _Fucking **fine**._ “I’m gonna go look for him,” he resignedly told T-Dog. “Can’t have our lord and savior go hungry, can we?”

T-Dog’s eyebrows rose. “Alright. Good luck, man.”

“Yeah.” Patting the broad man on the shoulder, Daryl turned away. He walked slowly down the hallway, his hands in his pockets. He peeked into open doors as he passed them, but they were all either empty or filled with other members of the household. Daryl wandered into the east wing, continuing to check rooms. When he reached Rick’s office, he poked his head in, but the lights were out and Rick was nowhere to be found. A bubble of annoyance seeped up. How could anyone expect to find anyone else in a place this massive? Scowling, Daryl wandered down to the library. The lights were out in there as well, but just as he turned to go, he caught a faint outline of yellow light coming from the back of the tremendous room, almost completely obscured by the countless bookshelves filling the space. Eyebrows furrowed, he navigated around the towering bookshelves. His footsteps clacked on the parquet floor. He reached the place where he’d had his confrontation with Michonne, frowned, and continued walking. He reached the back of the first floor of the library, its walls dotted with dark paintings. To his right, light was spilling out of a cracked door.

Hesitantly, Daryl walked over to the door and pushed it open. His eyebrows rose. The room was filled with pillows of all shapes, colors, and sizes; there were so many of them that Daryl honestly couldn’t even guess what the floor looked like. Several small, painted bookshelves were pressed against the yellow and blue walls, slender books and colorful toys stacked carefully within them. Handprints of paint were pressed against the right wall, growing larger as they climbed. Two tiny handprints, made from a glossy paint, were pressed just above a bookshelf. Two sets of handprints surrounded it—each one larger than the last. Tucked away beside the bookshelves on the right wall, Rick lay on his back atop a mound of pillows. His eyes flickered down as Daryl entered the room.

“Something I can do for you, Daryl?” the nobleman asked after a moment, returning his gaze to the ceiling.

Daryl warily picked his way through the room, stepping reluctantly on the pillows. Once he’d made his way to Rick’s side, he sat down, sinking into the soft fabric.

“I was looking for you,” Daryl muttered, folding his hands awkwardly in his lap. At Rick’s odd look, he clarified, “You missed dinner.”

Rick winced and lifted his arm, checking his watch. “Damn, you’re right. I did.”

Daryl watched as the nobleman let his arm drop bonelessly back to the pillows. “Ain’t like you to miss meals.”

Rick sighed heavily. “No, I know. I try not to. I’m sorry.” He reached out and awkwardly patted Daryl on the arm. “I didn’t mean to abandon you on your first day as a member of the group.”

Daryl shifted on his pillow. “You didn’t. I mean, I got to spend some quality time with Michonne,” he continued dryly, “which was interesting.”

Rick grunted, a faint smile touching his lips. “You came back in one piece. That’s always a good sign.”

Daryl twisted his lips and looked away. After a moment, he asked, “You two seem…close.”

Rick sighed heavily. “It’s not—”

“I ain’t saying it’s like _that_ ,” Daryl cut in. “I just mean…she seems really protective of you and your kids.” He hesitated. “She said you found each other after your wife…”

The nobleman lay quietly for a long moment. “It wasn’t…a great time for either of us. I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone, but I had Carl and Judith to protect, and I just…couldn’t do it alone.” He sighed. “I found her in a jail cell, about to be Pacified. I made an offer, instead.”

Daryl hesitated. “She was your first recruit?”

Rick snorted humorlessly. “I wasn’t building an army back then, Daryl. I just wanted…I needed my kids to be safe.”

“What made you think your kids would be safe with her?”

Rick smiled sadly up at the ceiling. “The spaghetti bits.”

Daryl frowned at him, but Rick didn’t explain himself. After a few minutes, Rick spoke again.

“I heard about the Walker you guys found.” The nobleman rolled his head towards Daryl. “Michonne told me about your tracking skills.”

Daryl shrugged. “Just somethin’ you learn, growing up like I did.” He shifted again. “How are you going to handle it?”

Rick eyed him carefully. “I don’t make decisions unilaterally, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll bring it up with the council tomorrow, and we’ll make plans.”

Daryl frowned. “The council?”

“Michonne, Carol, Hershel, Glenn, and Dale. We make all the important decisions together.” Rick rolled his head back, staring up at the ceiling once more. “Including whether or not to tell you anything.”

Daryl stared at him. _What kind of lord are you?_ he wondered in surprise. “I would’ve thought you’d _want_ to control everything.”

Rick snorted. “I’m not smart enough for that. I need them, to tell you the truth.”

Daryl took in Rick’s disheveled appearance, his curling hair that refused to stay in place on his forehead, and his untucked shirt and bare feet. He pursed his lips, but he said nothing. He looked around at the cheerily painted room.

“If you need to be talking to them, what’re you doing in here?” he asked gruffly.

Rick exhaled heavily. “I…I think better in here. It clears my head.” The nobleman gestured weakly at the handprints. “My kids love this room.”

“Is that why it’s full of pillows?” Daryl asked dryly. Rick chuckled.

“Yeah, it is. When Carl was little, he liked to curl up on a pillow and have us read to him,” he reminisced fondly. “So I started bringing in more pillows, and still more. You should have seen his smile. It was like I’d singlehandedly made the sun shine.” He shifted his weight. “One day, I just bought out a store and dragged an entire load of pillows in here. I figured we could both be comfortable for hours.” Rick’s lips twitched in a faint, pained smile. “Lori said it was one of the least dignified things I’d ever done.”

Daryl cast his eyes around the clearly well-loved room. “She didn’t like it?”

“She loved it,” Rick refuted immediately. “We used to spend entire weekends in here, just the three of us and our mountain of pillows.” His fingers plucked idly at the end of a pillow beneath his arm. “It was…good.”

Daryl glanced at him, then lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Rick tipped his head in acknowledgement. “So coming in here… It reminds me of the good things. The things I miss. The things I want to fight for.” He sighed heavily. “I figure that’s worth something, at least.”

Daryl nodded. “Sounds about right.” He paused. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Rick’s eyebrows rose. “No! I…no.” He frowned. “I’d like it if you stayed, actually.”

Daryl fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt and nodded. “Alright.”

The two fell quiet. An old, cat shaped clock on the wall gave a tired tick at irregular intervals, its battery clearly running dry. After a few minutes of silence, Daryl lay back among the pillows and folded his arms over his chest. If Rick didn’t want to be alone, that was fine by him. Daryl scratched at his goatee, frowning up at the ceiling. _I don’t much like being alone, either_ , he mused silently.

They lay in silence, listening to the occasional ticking of an old, nearly forgotten clock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I absolutely gave Daryl a Beretta purely because of Boondock Saints. No, I’m not sorry.
> 
> Thanks so much to [Redeckwoman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Redneckwoman/pseuds/Redneckwoman) and [limitlessskyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/limitlessskyes/pseuds/limitlessskyes) for betaing this for me!!! Feedback is always appreciated!! ^_^
> 
> (Also, I know nothing about guns, so if I mess anything up, PLEASE tell me!!)  
> EDIT: I finally found Sasha and Tyreese's last name, so I swapped it out.


	6. Toyland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the greatest betas of all time. [Redneckwoman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Redneckwoman/pseuds/Redneckwoman) and [limitlessskyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/limitlessskyes/pseuds/limitlessskyes) were kind enough to look this over for me, and they caught a lot of my silly goofs (I'm using a new tablet, which hasn't yet figured out what I want to say). All remaining mistakes are mine. Hope you guys enjoy it! ^_^

Morning brought gloomy clouds with it, hinting strongly of rain that would fall sooner or later. The kitchen was uncharacteristically cool, despite being filled with warm food and the majority of the household. Carol had settled herself at the table, and she was speaking in low tones to Hershel. Daryl swept his eye over the crowd, thinking back over the night before. After their brief conversation, he and Rick had fallen into a companionable silence. Rick had seemed…tired, as if he knew that he had an unpleasant task ahead of him, but he was determined to face it. Neither had said a word as Daryl headed off to bed and Rick grudgingly made his way to the kitchen.

Now, in the gray light of the morning, Daryl slowly ate a bowl of hot oatmeal that was loaded with cinnamon and sugar. _Why was I so worried about him in the first place?_ he wondered silently. _It's not as though he can't take care of himself. He's a lord. Someone is looking out for him, right?_  He frowned. _I'm sure somebody would've noticed that he hadn't eaten last night. Or the idiot would've gotten himself something once he was done thinking about whatever it was he had on his mind._ Daryl shook his head at himself. _Rick doesn't need a nursemaid, moron._

As if on cue, Rick chose that moment to stride into the kitchen, clad in a white t-shirt and dark blue jeans. Daryl lowered his spoon, eyes narrowing as he took in their leader. Rick's eyes were cold and hard, distant in a way that Daryl hadn't seen since coming to the manor. The usual susurrus quieted as the other members of the household became aware of him. Rick positioned himself between the heavy wooden table he typically ate at and the head of the long dining table in the adjoining room. Once all eyes were fixed on him, he cleared his throat.

"I have news for everyone," he announced in a rough voice. "My biggest supporter, Lady Alberich, was found dead in her home yesterday afternoon. She and the rest of her household had been poisoned, and every servant she had was Pacified before they were murdered." Silence met his statement. "Later today, I will need to attend an emergency meeting to deal with her loss in the state council. I will, of course, be taking Michonne with me." His already grim expression grew even darker. "I know what you're thinking, and I agree. She was attacked because she held anti-Pacification sympathies, and whoever did it wanted us all to know that. We've been careful this far, but we'll need to increase our efforts to make sure that no unauthorized people ever gain access to our home."

After a moment, Maggie spoke up. "Do the police have any leads?"

Rick shook his head. "No. Somehow, the house has virtually no evidence left behind." He grimaced. "Apparently, the Pacified servants cleaned thoroughly before administering and consuming the poison that killed them all."

Beside Daryl, Glenn made a soft noise. Daryl spared a glance at him, noting his sharp gaze.

"How many servants did she have?" Glenn asked abruptly. Rick turned to him, frowning.

"At least fifteen, as far as I know."

"Any signs of struggle?"

Rick's frown deepened. "Aside from them holding Lady Alberich still, no."

Glenn sat up straight at the table. "Then how the hell did they manage to Pacify everyone? Wouldn't someone have fought back or tried to run?"

Everyone tensed. No one could imagine an entire household getting Pacified without _someone_ violently disagreeing. Daryl himself had to fight a sudden wave of nausea. If the government could Pacify large groups of people, what would stop them from deciding that trials weren't worth the hassle? How else would they use that technology? He couldn't think of any possibilities that didn't make his stomach churn.

In the pregnant silence that followed Glenn's question, Carol leaned across the table.

"So what are you saying?"

Glenn bit his lip. "It shouldn't be possible, but… What if they've figured out how to Pacify large groups of people at once?"

At that, quiet, distressed murmurs broke out in the kitchen and the dining room. Rick raised a hand for silence, and everyone quieted down once more.

"If that's the case, all the more reason for us to do what we're doing," he stated firmly. "If someone had the ability to pull off mass Pacification, we need to figure out why they're doing it, _how_ they did it, and _who_ did it."

"It has to be the Governor," someone replied from the dining room. "Who else would have that kind of technology?"

Rick nodded slowly. "He's probably our most likely suspect," Rick agreed, "but we don't want to rule anyone out, either. We need proof, and we need to know what the hell he's up to, if he did it."

"How are we supposed to get proof?" Karen asked, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.

"I'll see if I can get a read on him at the emergency meeting," Rick replied. His expression grew distant for a moment, and then he seemed to snap back to the present. "In the meantime, everyone stay sharp. I doubt he'd risk coming after us so soon after murdering her, but there's no point in taking unnecessary risks." He cast a long, stoic look around the group. "We can do this, people. We'll stop the son of a bitch before he uses this to destroy anyone else."

His quiet confidence seemed to reassure a decent portion of the group, but Daryl couldn't help but frown. _Are they reassured because they believe in Rick, or because it's easier than the alternative?_

Rick kept his chin up, no doubt lingering over his posture as he made eye contact with everyone in turn. "If anyone has concerns or questions, you can come to me," he told them firmly. "This is serious, but we can handle it. I have faith in all of us." When several people nodded at him, he took a step back. "You can go back to your meals now."

The dining room dissolved into conversations, but Daryl was pleasantly surprised to hear snippets of tactics instead of the fear and doubt he'd expected. Finished with his announcement, Rick came over to the table and grabbed a muffin. He gave them a brief nod, then made his way back out of the kitchen. Daryl watched him go. Lost in thought, he tentatively resumed eating.

* * *

 

Glenn caught Daryl's arm when he stood up after finishing his breakfast. The younger man plastered a weak smile on his face.

"I promised to show you the gym," he reminded Daryl gently. "You still up for seeing it?"

Daryl thought about their recent revelation. He rolled his shoulders. "I could stand to burn off some steam," he replied grimly. Glenn nodded sympathetically.

"Yeah, I hear you." He stood from the table, brushing a hand against his wife's shoulder. Maggie reached up to gently clasp his hand in hers, patted it, and let it go. Turning to Daryl, he nodded at the entryway. "Well, let's get moving, then. We've all got things to do today."

That last bit held an unusually dark tone, but Daryl simply tipped his head in acknowledgement. Together, they made their way down the hallway. They lapsed into an uneasy silence as they walked, Glenn with his mind clearly miles away. Eventually, they reached a door on the far side of the east wing. They came to a stop.

"Alright, here it is," Glenn informed Daryl calmly, waving an arm at the unassuming door in front of them. The doorknob turned easily in his grip, and the door swung open to reveal a narrow, lit stairwell. They made their way down the concrete steps, footsteps echoing off reinforced walls. Glenn looked at him over his shoulder, grinning weakly. 

"I won't be able to stay down here with you," he said apologetically.  "I have to help coordinate our new patrols and figure out what we're going to do about this new mess." He clapped Daryl on the shoulder.  "I'm sure you'll manage, though."

Daryl grunted. "You said I would be meeting with trainers?" he asked when they reached the bottom of the stairs. A massive steel door stood in front of them, its visible weight imposing. Glenn reached out and pressed his thumb against the panel beside the door.  Daryl followed suit.

Glenn nodded. "Yeah, though you've probably met all of them by now," he replied thoughtfully. The door slid open, revealing a sprawling underground complex. The gym spanned the entire length and width of the manor, gleaming with white plaster walls and occasionally dotted with tall, wide mirrors. It was clearly sectioned off, with weights in one area, a boxing ring in another, bikes, treadmills, and two series of enclosed rooms that looked like shooting galleries. Other members of the household were hard at it, fists audibly smacking bags and pads. Glenn and Daryl moved inside, and they found themselves joined shortly by others who had been at the troubling breakfast. Karen nodded at them as she passed, and she heard towards a set of doors at the south side of the complex. When Daryl glanced at Glenn, the other man bobbed his head in Karen's direction.

"Locker rooms are back there," he explained simply. "Karen teaches kickboxing, if you're interested."

Daryl turned to stare at him. "Kickboxing? The hell would I want to learn that for?"

Glenn's lips quirked up in a smile. "You never know. It's kind of awesome to roundhouse kick an enemy."

Daryl's lips flattened. "That shit would get you killed in a street fight."

"Still could be worth learning," Glenn reported easily. "Never hurts to figure out what you're good at."

Daryl stopped near the edge of a boxing ring. A tall, muscular man Daryl usually saw on patrol was wrapping tape around his knuckles. He looked at Daryl curiously. Glenn leaned closer.

"Meet Sven, one of our boxing coaches. He's pretty damn good at it."

Daryl gave the tall man a nod, then deliberately walked away. He pulled to a stop in a relatively empty area, then turned to face the Asian man.

"Are these ‘classes’ mandatory?" he asked warily. Glenn's eyebrows rose.

"No, but most of us like trying to learn new things, or they like to share what skills they have with the group." He gave Daryl an odd look. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Daryl. You know that, right?"

Daryl grunted. He gave the huge complex another long, assessing glance. "So do you teach anything?"

Glenn grinned. "Accounting," he replied cheekily. At Daryl's lifted eyebrow, he continued, "What, you thought it would be martial arts? Don't be racist."

Catching the other man's playful tone, Daryl lifted both eyebrows. "So who does teach it?"

Glenn's grin grew. "Maggie," he replied proudly.

Surprised, Daryl placed a hand on his hip. "Maggie, huh?"

"Don't fuck with my wife!" Glenn patted him companionably on the shoulder. "She'll tear you to shreds."

Daryl snorted. "Got it." Looking around, he noticed a thick running track that looped around the edges of the complex. He made his way over to it, Glenn trailing behind him.

"You know, you can teach lessons, too, if you want to."

Daryl paused, one foot on the rubber track. He gave Glenn a startled glance. "The fuck would I teach? I'm nobody."

Glenn blinked at that. "You could teach plenty of things. Tracking, for one."

The redneck grimaced. "Has everyone heard about that?" he grumbled. "Michonne can track, too, you know."

"Yeah, she can. And even she was impressed." Glenn lifted a challenging eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to impress her?"

Shaking his head, Daryl stepped up onto the slightly elevated track. It rebounded gently beneath his feet.

"Ain't nothin' I can teach that somebody else can't manage better," he shot back dismissively. "You'll be fine."

Glenn posed his lips thoughtfully. "If you say so. At any rate, it's your choice." His eyebrows furrowed. "If you're thinking of going for a run, shouldn't you change clothes first?"

Until that moment, Daryl had only been vaguely considering it. He gave the other man a dry look. "If you gotta run in real life, you think it'll always be when you're wearing workout clothes?"

When Glenn's lips twitched, Daryl started running. His boots sprang up off the track with each step. It was comfortable, but not very practical, he noted disdainfully. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Glenn shake his head, turn, and head back upstairs. The steel door guarding them slid open and shut with a well-oiled whisper. Breathing evenly, Daryl focused on running. The rhythmic pounding of his feet slowly calmed his thoughts.

* * *

 

Daryl actually lost track of time as he ran, sweat running down his neck and pooling in his dark blue shirt. A sudden bang to his right caught his attention, and he staggered to a stop.  Several more bangs followed the first in quick succession. Gunshots. The muffled sounds were coming from one of the shooting ranges beside him. Curious, Daryl dropped down off the elevated track and walked over to the room. He lifted an arm distractedly to mop at the sweat on his brow. When he reached the door to the shooting range, he hesitated, listening to the steady shots within. If he startled whoever was inside, it could end badly for everyone.

Finally, the shots came to a halt. Daryl cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.

Rick was standing in one of the lanes, reloading a handgun with a grim expression. A pair of protective headphones hung around his neck. He looked up when Daryl entered the room. The nobleman gave him a blank stare for a moment, as if he couldn't fathom why Daryl was there. Eventually, Rick blinked and cleared his throat.

"Daryl? Do you need something?"

The redneck frowned. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he moved closer. "Why do you think I need somethin'?"

Rick's eyebrows furrowed momentarily, then cleared. "You didn't know it was me in here." For some reason, tension dropped from the nobleman's shoulders. Daryl's frown deepened.

"Why would that matter?"

Rick shrugged his broad shoulders, dropping his gaze to his gun. He popped the last bullet into the chamber, then slid the chamber back into place. "Most people tend to leave me alone," he replied matter-of-factly. Rick gestured at the other lanes. "You're welcome to stay, though."

Daryl only spared the other lanes a fleeting glance, his mind caught on Rick's last statement. He shrugged.

"Guns aren't really my weapon of choice."

Rick shot a look at him out of the corner of his eye. With a press of a button, he sent a fresh target sheet to the back off the range. He didn't lift his headphones to his ears; instead, he just stared at the target, his hands loosely gripping his gun.

"What is your weapon of choice, then?" he asked. Daryl shifted his weight.

"Crossbow."

That made Rick turn to face him, eyebrows raised. "A bowman, huh? Interesting."

Daryl bristled instinctively. "Why's it interesting?"

Rick's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "Because we don't have any archers in our group yet. Or rather, we didn't. It's a nice change of pace."

Daryl shrugged, dropping his eyes. Archery was actually something his mom had loved, back before things were bad. Once she got sick, Daryl decided to pick it up, and he'd discovered a talent for it. On her lucid days, he'd take her out into the woods behind their house and hit a few makeshift targets.

Her smile had been radiant.

Like hell was he going to tell _Rick_ all that, though. In the following silence, Rick fiddled idly with his gun.

"Do you want a new crossbow?" he asked suddenly. Daryl blinked in surprise.

"A new one wouldn't hurt, I guess…" he replied warily. He thought wistfully of his beloved crossbow at home. It had probably been sold off with the rest of his possessions, he realized abruptly. He glowered, suddenly irritated with this man who had everything. "Probably the least you could do for me."

Rick gave him a long, assessing stare. He nodded slowly. "Probably."

And just like that, Daryl felt guilty for snapping at him. He shifted his weight awkwardly. Rick watched him for a few seconds, then turned to face his lane. He set his gun down on the ledge, plucked the used sheet off the counter, and tossed it at a large trash can behind him. It landed awkwardly, hanging over the edge. Rick picked up his headgear, hesitating before he put it on.

"I'll talk to Michonne about getting you to a store," he told Daryl stiffly. "But if you're not going to stay, I'd like to get back to it."

Daryl nodded quickly, and he took a step back. Rick eyed him, then put the headphones on his ears. He lifted his gun and paused, clearly waiting for the other man to leave. Obligingly, the archer turned away, but as he did, he caught a glimpse of the used target sheet. It had a tight cluster of four bullets through the heart, and one in each eye.

Unsure what to make of that, Daryl left the room. After a moment, shots rang out again, muffled by the soundproofed walls.

* * *

 

Rick paused after he unloaded his next round of bullets. His eyes strayed to the door, and his eyebrows furrowed. Sighing heavily, he lowered his gun and punched the button to retract his target sheet. Once again, his clusters were perfect, piercing the heart and the head. He took a deep breath and held out his hands. They were steady. Closing his eyes briefly, he mentally steeled himself.

He’d have to shower and dress for the meeting ahead. Taking another slow breath, he pulled himself into the cool, calm mentality he always used when forced to be The Lord. His chin came up instinctively, and he opened his eyes. He was ready.

* * *

 

The Governor smiled, running his hands through a Walker's curly blonde hair. Its back was passed flush against an antique bookshelf, and its empty gray eyes stated at him emotionlessly. Dust motes drifted through the air in the tiny, barely used office, highlighted by the weak light streaming in through the small window. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against its. His hands tangled in its hair. Grinning, he pulled back and tugged on its locks.

"Not very defiant now, are we?" he murmured into his former secretary’s ear. "I'd ask if you like it, but it doesn't really matter, does it?"

The Walker didn't respond, of course. The Governor's grin took on a vicious edge, and he tightened his grip. A few hairs came loose. The Walker didn't flinch. The Governor dropped one of his hands, skimming it down the Walker's side. He stepped forward, pressing himself against it. His thumb slipped inside the Walker's jeans.

Before he could progress further, a hesitant knock rapped against the door to the office. Sighing, the Governor placed both hands firmly on the Walker's hips and stepped back. He glanced at the door.

"Come in."

The doorknob turned, and Milton tentatively entered the room. His eyes ran quickly over the Walker passed against the bookshelf, and he hesitated. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"Sir, the other nobility have arrived. The meeting is about to start," he demurred. "We should head to the council chamber."

Raising an eyebrow, the Governor stepped away from the Walker. He absently straightened his waistcoat.

"Remind me to thank the treasurer for the use of his accountant's office," he tossed out casually. Milton nodded, but his eyes kept straying to the Walker. The Governor glanced at it, then looked back at his assistant. "Is there a problem?"

Milton flinched. "No, sir. I just…didn't realize that you'd Pacified her. I thought you liked her."

The Governor smiled. "What makes you think I didn't?"

Milton wisely said nothing. He fiddled nervously with his glasses. Smiling amicably, the Governor stepped past him. He beckoned for the Walker to follow him, and it obediently trailed along behind him.

As he moved into the brightly lit hallway, the Governor gazed at the stream of noblemen and noblewomen in formal dress.

"I hope our dear Lord Grimes will be joining us today," he remarked casually. Milton's head bobbed affirmatively.

"Yes, sir. He's already in the chamber."

The Governor smiled. "Excellent." He walked ahead, waving a negligent hand at the Walker behind him. "Do take care of this for me, will you?"

Milton looked at the thing that was once a proud, defiant woman. He nodded.

"Yes, sir," he replied quietly.

* * *

 

Daryl stepped outside, grimacing up at the darkening clouds above. The muscles in his arms jumped and twitched, shaky after his workout. He shrugged the sensation off and turned to the flowerbed running along the east wing. Someone had left the hose out after watering the plants the previous day, and it lay in the mulch, thick and stiff with water. Lips tightening with annoyance, Daryl walked to the hose’s front end and picked up the sprayer.

He absently coiled the hose over his arm as he slowly traced it back to the spout. Condensation slid off the hose’s plastic shell and pooled on his already sweat-slick skin.

A soft rap on a nearby window made him look up. Daryl blinked at the face of a teenage boy behind the glass. The boy's hair was a bit too long for his face, and it curled freely around his cheeks and forehead. When Daryl frowned reflexively at him, the boy simply gave him a quick smile and spun around, ducking away from the window. After a few moments, the outer door exciting the east wing opened, and the boy tentatively stepped outside. He looked around warily. Frown deepening, Daryl did the same. Two people were on the south wall, patrolling slowly. Their backs were to the manor.

Grinning, the boy slipped through the door and strode to Daryl's side. His boots, which had been pulled over a pair of inexpensive jeans, clacked against the cobblestone.

"Hey," the boy started. His eyes glinted. "You're the new guy, right? Dixon?"

"What's it to you?" Daryl replied irritably. He resumed winding the house around his arm. The boy followed him.  Daryl glared at him. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk," the boy returned. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I heard that you knocked out a guard at your auction."

Daryl came to a stop, and he turned to face the boy. He raised an eyebrow.  "You heard about that, huh?"

The boy shrugged. "Everyone knows about it." He rocked once on his heels. "Do you think you could teach me to fight like that?"

Daryl frowned. "Kid, I don't think you want to learn anything I might have to teach you," he replied ruefully. A faint suspicion crossed his mind, and he narrowed his eyes. "Wait a second. Don't they have classes or somethin' for you guys? You ain't the only kid here, are you?"

The kid grimaced. "No, but I don't have any lessons today," he replied defensively. His eyes darted back and forth. "I mean, _we_ don't have classes today. Not just me."

"Uh huh," Daryl replied sarcastically. "Sure, I buy that."

The kid eyed him, then winced. "You gonna tell on me?" he asked in a resigned tone. Daryl watched him for a moment, then shrugged.

"Nah. I ain't a squealer." He was rewarded with a grin. Shaking his head, he adjusted the house on his arm. "So you're playin' hooky just to ask me if I'll teach you how to clock a guy in the head?"

The kid's grin widened. "If you'll do it, yeah. Dad's been letting me learn some stuff, like how to shoot and a little bit of self-defense, but he hasn't taught me any of the cool stuff yet."

"The 'cool stuff'?" Daryl mimicked. He snorted. "Kid, let's get one thing straight. I'm not cool. Nothin' I know is cool. You're better off learning something from Sven or Maggie."

He looked unconvinced. "Sven only knows traditional boxing, and Maggie won't fight with me. She thinks it'll upset my dad."

Daryl paused. Maggie didn't seem to care much about what anybody thought, and he highly doubted she'd ever hurt a kid. Narrowing his eyes, Daryl took another look at the teenager.

"What's your name, Squirt?"

He scowled at the nickname. "It's…" The kid hesitated, then sighed. "Carl. I'm Carl."

"Carl," Daryl repeated slowly. "As in, Lord Grimes' kid?"

 Carl deflated a bit, his shoulders dropping. "Does that mean you're not gonna teach me?"

"I didn't agree to teach you in the first place," he replied absently. This kid, who had no posh accent that that Daryl could hear, was the lord's son? This was the kid they were so desperate to keep hidden from him until they decided that Daryl was a safe risk? A horrible thought occurred to him, and he started looking around wildly. "Where the fuck is Michonne? Is she gonna pop out of nowhere and skin me?"

Carl snorted. "She's with Dad at the emergency meeting. And besides, you're one of us now, right?"

Daryl stared at him. "Yeah, but not everyone seems to believe that."

Carl studied him intently. "Dad believes in you."

Those words, spoken with quiet, firm confidence, startled him, and Daryl found himself blinking at the teenager. After a moment, the redneck swallowed hard.

"He does?"

Carl nodded. "I think Dad's liked you from day one. He talked about you."

 _He did?_  Daryl thought incredulously. He frowned. _The fuck did he say?_

Carl took a step closer, his hands still wedged in his pockets. He glanced back at the row of windows behind him. Biting his lip, he leaned forward conspiratorially.

"So you'll teach me, right?" he asked again, hissing under his breath. Daryl eyed him, then sighed.

"I don't know why the fuck any of you thinks I know what the hell I'm doing, but I ain't teaching you nothing without your dad's okay." He casually lifted the hose's spray nozzle and loosened the topmost loop around his arm.

Predictably, the kid groaned. In a flash, Daryl aimed the hose at him and squeezed the trigger on the nozzle. A jet of water nailed the kid in the chest. Carl's jaw dropped open in shock. Daryl smirked.

"No bitching. You get your dad's permission, then you come to me and we'll talk," he stated matter-of-factly.

For a second, Carl's chest puffed out like a peacock's, and Daryl could feel the kid's inner lordling rising to the surface. Interestingly, the moment passed just as quickly as it came, and the kid just gave him a resigned but annoyed look, his shoulders drooping.  Carl nodded grudgingly.

"Alright, alright. I'll talk to Dad first."

Daryl nodded approvingly. "Good choice, Squirt."

Carl rolled his eyes. "That isn't going to become a thing with you, is it?" he asked wearily.

Daryl aimed the hose at him again. Carl instinctively took a step back. "Maybe. Now get out of here before somebody comes looking for you and decides I'm corrupting you or something."

Carl sighed. "Yeah, okay." At his brief hesitation, Daryl squirted a tiny jet of water at the kid's feet. Carl jumped, then gave Daryl a dry look. "I'm going, I'm going!"

The archer watched as the lord's son scampered back to the door entering the east wing. The kid paused with his hand on the handle, and he glanced back over his shoulder.

"Nice to meet you, Daryl."

The redneck grunted. "Back atcha, Squirt."

The teenager audibly sighed, then retreated back into the house. Shaking his head, Daryl finished coiling up the hose. When he reached the spout, he turned off the water. Squeezing the nozzle, he poured the remaining water out into a thick bed of mulch. He hummed quietly to himself.

"Rick's kid, huh?" he muttered to himself. _Not a bad apple._

Shaking the last bit of water out of the hose, he tossed it onto the ground in a heap. A few stray drops of rain splattered against the back of his neck. Daryl tipped his head back and looked at the dark sky.

With a brief shake of his head, he went back inside the manor. Rain or no rain, there were probably some chores he could be helping with.

* * *

 

Rick watched impassively as the other nobles in the room bickered “politely” over who should be nominated to replace Lady Alberich in the State House of Lords, the nobility’s counterpart to the House of Representatives. Due to Lady Alberich’s lack of heirs, votes in the House of Lords would now be skewed. For over two hours now, Rick had watched the others posture and express false regrets as they issued nominations for the vacant seat. Most were insisting on relatives or friends of their own, presumably ones they themselves had some control over or owed a favor. Rick’s hands were folded over a closed leather tome, and the fingers on his left hand curled over the edge of the binding. He kept his fingers still with practiced ease. Beneath the pads of his fingers, the heavy, gleaming oak table was cool and smooth.

As the highest ranking nobleman in the room, he was seated at the “head” of the oval table. His chair was slightly more ornate than the others, gold etched in the intricately carved backrest and armrests. He was the third person to sit in this seat in the past month, and from the tense glances everyone stole at him, they were all very aware of that fact.

Keeping his face impassive, Rick cast his eyes over the other nobles. Of the fifteen present, five were moderately progressive, six were conservative, and four were—as the older members of the nobility would say— _idealists_. Those four were the ones who tended to side with Rick regarding his views on Pacification, but they strongly disliked him for appearing to take advantage of his indentured servants. The moderates would listen to him so long as his statements held a reasonable amount of logic. To appeal to the conservatives, who wanted everything to stay precisely the way it was, he’d have to appeal to their financial nature—the system as it was would eventually destroy the economy of Georgia. For all that they benefited from the status quo, that wouldn’t remain the case for long. Rick suppressed a sigh. He’d had a _plan_ to deal with them all, to get them all working together.

But now that Lady Alberich had been murdered, everyone was watching everyone else with a certain degree of wariness, and no one appeared to trust Rick. After all, no one moved up two ranks in a month in noble circles without having a hand in it. He let the edges of his lips curl down slightly.

No one would ever believe that he wasn’t behind the deaths of Lord Brooks and Lady Alberich. Not unless someone took him out, too.

Rick determinedly did not look at the Governor, who was sitting in a chair on a tiny dais to the side of the room. Theoretically, no members outside of the nobility were allowed to enter this room in the State Council Building, but as the foremost politician in the state, he was granted an honorary title of sorts. Enough to be present, though not enough to be seated at the table or to speak without being spoken to. Typically, the head of the group would acknowledge the Governor in some way, allowing him or her to speak. Rick did not. He refused to so much as look at him, even though he could see the man out of the corner of his eye. The other nobles caught the insult, but they did nothing. Even before all of this, they’d considered Rick to be something like a tamed beast, and they feared crossing him.

Now, it was more like they thought Rick was a _caged_ beast, and they were locked inside with him. Without his verbal or nonverbal permission, they probably wouldn’t interact with the Governor even if the man were on fire.

A somewhat rotund nobleman to Rick’s right shifted in his chair, emitting a loud _harrumph_ that snapped Rick out of his thoughts. The man leaned back in his chair, one hand lifting to toy with his ridiculous handlebar mustache.

“All of this discussion is nonsense,” the man blustered. “What we need is to bring in some fresh blood, get this state’s government _running_ again!” He stroked at his mustache again. “My niece would be an excellent choice, in fact.”

Predictably, this set off another torrent of protests. Wordlessly, Rick picked his hands up and placed them flat on the table. The other nobles immediately fell quiet, watching him carefully. He opened the tome in front of him, flipping leisurely through the stiff pages. Family after family went by, their information and crests printed in the overly flowery style that most of the nobility preferred. Finally, he reached a family that had not yet had a member promoted to the state council. He ran a finger over the genealogy, stopping when he reached a name he recognized. He tapped his finger and looked up.

“Lady Amelia Collins,” he intoned smoothly. “Her family has been a part of Georgia for eight generations, and yet they have never been invited to participate in the council or the House of Lords. I think they have been overlooked long enough.” He paused, but the other nobles simply stared at him with vary expressions of dismay, curiosity, or suspicion. “Any objections?”

A few of the more conservative members of the council shifted in their seats, their discomfort obvious. The Collins’ were famous for their progressive outlook, and the young Lady Amelia had been making waves on the anti-Pacification front. None of them were willing to speak up, however. After one last look around the table, Rick nodded firmly.

“All in favor?” The entire group reluctantly raised their hands. “All opposed?” No one budged. “Then we’re in agreement. Lady Amelia Collins will take the place of our dear, departed friend, Lady Alberich.” Frustration lowered his voice, bringing a shard of ice into his tone. Some of the other nobles flinched and nervously looked away. Rick ignored them. “This emergency meeting is adjourned.”

The others rose quickly and silently, gathering their belongings and straightening their extravagant clothes. They managed to rush-without-rushing to the door, and once it was open, they fluttered out like a group of magpies. Whispers floated back into the now-quiet room, the other nobles glancing over their shoulders at him as their waiting servants flowed seamlessly to their sides. Picking up a pen, Rick made a notation in the registry by Lady Amelia’s name, blew on the ink until it dried, and then closed the tome. He rose to his feet, tucking the book under his arm.

The Governor rose to his feet as well, his eyes burning holes in Rick’s side. Ignoring the other man, he strode out of the room. The Governor smoothly followed behind him, no longer allowed to be within the council chamber without a noble present. The moment they stepped through the doorway, Michonne materialized at Rick’s side. She gripped the hilt of her sword, glaring openly at the Governor. Out of the corner of his eye, Rick watched the man smile indulgently at Michonne, as if she were a particularly amusing pet. Clenching his jaw, Rick moved away down the marble-floored hallway. Michonne fell into step beside him, though she continued to glare over her shoulder.

“How did it go?” she hissed at him. Rick’s lips pursed momentarily.

“I deliberately insulted him,” he replied in a low voice. “He’ll be along.”

Michonne grimaced. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

He glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow. “I _can_ protect myself, you know.” She glared at him until he ended up suppressing another sigh. “Just stay nearby. He won’t try anything in a public space.”

She gave him a doubtful look, but she held her peace. Rick proceeded to the records room, where a brief nod of his head was all it took to send a clerk scrambling for the key to let him in. He entered the room and glanced over the well-maintained shelves. Books, files, and boxes were neatly categorized on one end of the room. On the other, a series of tables and chairs lined a bay of large windows. A thick dividing screen blocked the light from reaching the more precious books. Rick returned the registry to its original spot, then made his way over to the windows. A peal of thunder rolled through the room.

Folding his arms behind his back, Rick stared out of the windows and watched silently as rain pelted the glass. A small, dignified courtyard in front of the council building was filled with large umbrellas as people rushed to their vehicles. Rick's jaw tightened as he watched them hurry. It wouldn’t be long before the Governor used his powers to enter the records room as well. Rick inhaled and exhaled slowly. Behind him, Michonne was a welcome and solid presence. Even though Rick was confident in his ability to protect himself…he didn’t trust the Governor to stick to the rules. If he _were_ behind the murders of Lady Alberich and Lord Brooks, that would make him a threat to be reckoned with, even more so than he was before. Rick’s eyes narrowed in the gloomy light.

 _What possible reason could he have for killing two nobles?_ he found himself wondering for the thousandth time. _He has nothing to gain by removing them. What’s the point?_ He fought a scowl that threatened to appear. _But who else could it be, if not him?_

The door opened once more, and Rick tensed instinctively. He focused his eyes on the glass instead of the scenery beyond it, and the faint reflection of the room behind him came into focus. The Governor, resplendent in a perfectly tailored suit, looked over at him from the doorway and smiled. The politician sauntered over, giving Michonne a faintly sarcastic nod.

“I assume you won’t have any trouble with my speaking now, Lord Grimes,” the Governor drawled as he drew to a stop beside Rick. The politician placed his hands in his pockets. “Particularly since you didn’t see fit to include me in the proceedings earlier.”

“You had nothing to add,” Rick returned coldly. The Governor heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“You don’t like me,” he mourned, blithely stating the obvious.

“You’re destroying the state.”

The other man raised his eyebrows. “Destroying it? By making sure that the filth of this good country are forced to put back into it what they took out?”

Rick turned his head just enough to spear the politician with an icy glare. “You’re destroying the work force _and_ the consumer base. At this rate, Georgia won’t have anyone left to actually generate revenue.”

The Governor clicked his tongue. “Lord Grimes, I’m _creating_ the perfect work force. Pacified workers require no funds, no motivation. Just orders. I’m sure there will always be enough people in our good state with disposable income.”

“Not when Pacified and indentured servants fill all the roles that actual, hardworking citizens could fill,” Rick argued smoothly. “Your new laws are dangerously shortsighted.”

The Governor smiled. “Then why are people voting for them?” He stepped closer, almost invading Rick’s personal space. “My laws make people feel safe. All of the dangerous elements in our society are being rounded up and, to put it simply, disposed of. By the time I’m done, everyone will know that anyone they meet is a good citizen, just like them.”

Rick let his upper lip curl in disgust. “You’re a fool.”

Shaking his head, the Governor sighed. “It’s not necessary to start name calling, Lord Grimes.” He gave Rick a slow onceover that made his stomach curdle. “You and I should be on the same side.”

“Why on earth would you think that?” Rick asked, finally turning to face the other man.

The Governor smiled. “We have similar… _predilections_.” He glanced briefly at Michonne. “My laws suit you just as much as they do me. How else would you get your toys?”

Michonne, bless her, didn’t move a muscle. Rick raised his chin imperiously.

“My _tastes_ are none of your business,” he replied coldly. He gave Michonne a calculated glance. “And at any rate, I prefer my servants _thinking_. From what I hear, your mansion is staffed almost entirely by Pacified.”

The Governor’s smile remained fixed. “Either way, it seems we both enjoy partners who can’t say no.”

Rick sent a brief prayer of thanks to his late father for teaching him to hold his “lordly” expression at all costs. His stomach twisted violently. _He’s **fucking** his Walkers? What kind of a sick, depraved soul **is** he?_ Taking a measured breath, he turned back to the window.

“We are nothing alike,” Rick replied, his tone icy. He paused, then continued, “In fact, I’m surprised that you’re even talking to me. You _must_ know that you’ll never have me in your pocket.”

The Governor hummed idly, running his eyes slowly down Rick’s frame. Rick’s fingers twitched, and rage and disgust rose up inside him. As always, he quickly put his rage on a tight leash. Eyes narrowing, he slanted a sideways look at the other man.

“I thought you only liked your partners unwilling,” Rick accused, his voice lowered with restrained anger. The Governor flinched slightly at his tone, making a smug curl of dark satisfaction unfurl in Rick’s chest. The politician gave him a smile that was a parody of the word “charming.”

“I have many tastes, my dear Lord Grimes,” he replied smoothly. “I have to admit, there’s something interesting about being with a noble.” When Rick frowned, the Governor tapped his own temple. “No chip.”

Rick felt his disgust swell in his throat, rising alongside bile at the thought of having any sort of sexual encounter with this man. He turned away.

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Governor," he returned. "Chip or no chip."

The Governor waved a hand. "I think you'll find that I can be very persuasive, Lord Grimes," the politician replied cajolingly. "You and I, we should be friends."

Rick raised his chin slightly. "I can only think of one similarity between us."

The Governor's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"You try to intimidate people into giving you your way." He shifted his eyes, catching the Governor's gaze in the window's reflection. "People are intimidated by me. I tend to get my way as a result."

The Governor's smile faded. Rick returned his eyes to the people milling about in the rain.

"Perhaps that was a poor example," Rick mused aloud. For a split second, the Governor's eyes narrowed dangerously, but the other man quickly pasted a smile on his face.

"Strong people will need to band together in the days to come, Lord Grimes. Don't count me out until you're sure that you don't need me." His tone heavily implied that he thought Rick _would_ need him at some point. He gave Rick a short bow. “I suppose I’ll have to take my leave of you, my lord.” The Governor’s smarmy tone had a sharp edge to it, but Rick deliberately didn’t react, forcing himself to gaze out the window as though the other man had already left. Smirking, the Governor backed away, nodded at Michonne, and walked out of the records room. The door closed behind him with a quiet _click._

Rick exhaled slowly, his stomach still churning. He turned to Michonne, who was staring at the door as if she expected the man to come back through it at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” Rick apologized softly. She raised an eyebrow at him. Sighing, he continued, “I’m sorry that you had to deal with him implying…that.”

Her other eyebrow joined the first. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for a sex slave, Rick. And besides, isn’t that the point?”

Rick grimaced. His stomach soured further. The problem was, it _was_ the point. If everyone thought he was buying sex slaves, they wouldn’t look any closer for reasons why he chose the people he chose. He closed his eyes briefly, listening to the sound of the rain. The thought of being with a man didn’t bother him at all—the entire state government knew he was bisexual, and they always had. It was part of the reason anyone believed the façade he put up to cover his purchases—how could he have a harem of sex slaves if he were heterosexual and continued purchasing men?

The thought of _anyone_ believing that Rick was simply one step away from the monster that walked around in the Governor’s charming skin… He took another measured breath. At least the Governor’s comments had strongly implied that he bought Rick’s cover. With any luck, he wouldn’t look any more closely for a while.

Michonne shifted her weight. “So, what do you think? Did he engineer Lady Alberich’s murder?”

Rick opened his eyes and frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t see what he has to gain from it.”

Michonne hummed. “From what I can see, you’re the only one benefiting from it at the moment.”

“That’s what concerns me,” he replied darkly. “Rumors are going to start flying.” He sighed. “At least I have a solid alibi.”

Michonne gently bumped shoulders with him. “Lucky for you, they’ll actually care about your alibi.”

Rick gave her a weak smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. He pulled his usual stoic mask back on, smoothing out his features. Straightening his posture, he marched out of the records room. The clerk gave him a wide-eyed stare as he walked away, Michonne a threatening shadow at his heels. Her words rolled around in his mind. Had he been anyone else, he’d have been Pacified long ago for the things he’d done. Because he was a lord, he could get away with rumors of him forcing himself on his servants. He could get away with the horrible events of his past, the things he’d done before and after Lori died. He could literally get away with murder.

He fucking hated himself sometimes.

* * *

 

Daryl tapped his fingers on the table, watching the group surrounding him. Rick had remembered to join them this time, giving Daryl a weak smile as he entered the room in his formal shirt, pants, and boots, but aside from informing the others that he had no leads and that he'd chosen the late noblewoman's replacement, he'd been silent, picking at his meal with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Michonne was one again nowhere to be seen. As Daryl watched, Carol gave the lord a tall glass of water. He thanked her quietly as he took the glass, and she gave him a gentle smile. She ran a hand across Rick's shoulders as she pulled away.

Rick, sensing Daryl's eyes on him, looked up. After a moment, the nobleman dropped his eyes and stood. Daryl frowned, as did a few of the others.

"Rick?" Maggie leaned back to get a better look at him. "Are you alright?"

Rick gave her a fleeting smile. "I'm fine. I'm just not hungry."

"You should probably eat," Carol stated softly, her eyebrows furrowed. Rick shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Carol. It was delicious, as always, but I just don't have much of an appetite tonight." He gave the table a nod. "I need to get some work done. I'll see you all tomorrow."

With that, the man carried his mostly full plate to the counter. He left the kitchen without a backwards glance, his shoulders stiff beneath his crisp white shirt. Daryl chewed slowly, then twisted in his seat to face Carol. He tipped his head towards the entrance.

"He okay?"

She sighed. "Yeah, he'll be fine. Rick is never in a good mood after he's been forced to put on his game face for the crowd. He just needs to be alone for a bit."

Daryl nodded doubtfully. "Why does he hate it so much?"

Carol gave him a weak smile. "You'll have to ask him. I can't say that I understand all of his little quirks."

"Have _you_ asked him?"

Overhearing, T-Dog leaned closer from Carol's left. "We try to give him some privacy, man. What little we can, anyway. Rick has a lot of extra pressure on him."

"Yeah..." Dropping it, Daryl went back to his meal. Carol eyed him, then gave him a nudge on the shoulder.

"So how are you holding up? I haven't had time to ask."

Daryl looked up, then shrugged. "I'm fine. Nothin's really changed. I just know why you're all fucking crazy now, that's all."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." She glanced around, then leaned closer to him. "Nobody's given you any trouble?"

Daryl's eyebrows furrowed. "Why would they?"

"Sometimes the meatheads like to give the new guys a bit of trouble. They like to think they're testing them." She grimaced. "If anyone bothers you, just let me know. I'll put a stop to it."

Daryl started at her, a faint sliver of warmth and embarrassment curling within his chest. He stomped on those feelings as best he could and cleared his throat. "What are you, my mother?"

She smacked him with her spoon. "I'm nowhere near old enough to be your mother, thank you. Shut up and eat."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied meekly. He dodged a second swing of her spoon. Grinning, he lifted a fork to his mouth, but then he hesitated. Biting his lip briefly, he muttered, "And…thanks."

She looked over at him and smiled. "Of course. It's what I'm here for." She took a sip of soup. "Besides, I have to keep the pretty ones pretty."

Daryl groaned. "Stop."

She chuckled and resumed eating. Cheeks flushed, Daryl did the same. The atmosphere in the kitchen was faintly tenser than it had been this morning, but everyone seemed calm and relatively confident, ready to weather whatever storm came. Daryl felt himself relaxing. _I guess it’s good to be surrounded with people who decide to get shit done instead of panic_ , he mused.

Time flew as Daryl soaked in the warm company around him; even though he didn’t join any of the conversations at the table, most of them would look at him and smile, including him in some small way. Once he finished eating, Daryl took his plate to the sink and ran some water over it. His hands paused. _Did Rick’s kid ever get a chance to tell him that we met up?_ he wondered suddenly. His lips curled down. _Rick might be okay with me being a part of the crew, but who the fuck knows if he’s okay with me meeting his son just yet._ After a brief moment of indecision, Daryl sighed. _I’d better go tell him, just in case._

Daryl walked slowly down the long hallways, his fingers twitching anxiously. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. _According to Carl, Rick likes me._ His brows furrowed. **_Why_** _does he like me? All I usually do is give him shit._ Frowning, Daryl thought back over the quiet moments he and Rick had shared together. It seemed crazy, but…did the nobleman actually enjoy them as much as Daryl did? He shook his head firmly. _Rick ain’t looking for a friend, dumbass. He just needs another soldier._

He reached the closed door to Rick’s office and hesitated, the toes of his boots illuminated by the sliver of light spilling out beneath the door. Grimly, he reached out and rapped his fist against the door. There was no response. Frowning, Daryl tried the doorknob. The door swung open.

Rick was seated behind his desk, his cheek resting on his left fist. His eyes were staring at the desk in front of him, but it was clear of any papers. A half-full bottle rested next to his right elbow. Gingerly, Daryl stepped inside and closed the door. Rick didn’t look up.

“Uh…Rick?” he tried tentatively. The nobleman blinked, and then he dragged his eyes up from the dark wood of his desk. He stared at Daryl for a long moment.

“Hi, Daryl.” His voice was blank, and his eyes were vacant. “Found me again, have you?”

Daryl frowned. He slowly came closer to Rick’s desk. “You want me to leave?”

Rick snorted. “No.” The nobleman paused, his eyes dropping to his empty workspace. “Just surprised to see you. Surprised that nobody’s warned you off.”

Daryl reached the desk and leaned down, trying to catch Rick’s eye. A strong whiff of alcohol hit his nose. The redneck frowned.

“How much you been drinking?”

Rick smiled abruptly, and he leaned back in his chair. The seatback rocked with the force of his motion. He looked up at Daryl and gestured expansively at the bottle beside him.

“Not enough. Not yet, anyway.” His smile faltered. “Never seems to be enough.”

Daryl picked up the bottle. Eighteen-year-old scotch. He had to admit, if you were looking to get drunk, it was a good choice. He set the bottle back down, but he placed it out of the other man’s reach.

“You’re drinking because you had to go put on your ‘I’m a badass lord, don’t fuck with me’ routine?” he asked casually, leaning against Rick’s desk.

Rick’s smile remained unchanged, but his glassy eyes took on a haunted glint. “That and the ‘I’m a sexual predator’ act that goes with it.” He bared his teeth. “My father would be so proud.”

“But you ain’t.” Daryl shifted his weight. “You’ve never touched anyone here.”

Rick laughed. “But I have to make everyone think I have. My pretty little pets, and my taste for _defiance_. What kind of man am I, that that’s so easy to believe?” He pointed an unsteady hand at Daryl. “ _You_ believed it. You thought I bought you as a sex slave. Hell, I think a part of you _still_ believes it, and you know what? _I can’t blame you_.” He laughed again, then rubbed his left hand over his eyes. “You must hate me for all this.”

Daryl flinched. “I don’t hate you, man. And…ok, yeah, it’s hard to let that first impression go. But that ain’t your fault.”

“It is. It’s just one more thing on the list of shit that’s my fault.” Rick tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. “It isn’t right. Owning people. The fact that society just _accepts_ that anyone who owns an attractive contractor can fuck them with or without consent. The fact that all of you _have_ to look like you’re sex slaves, or else you’ll be put in even more danger. It’s bullshit, Daryl.”

“We all gotta do what we gotta do,” Daryl returned awkwardly. “So people will talk. At least they’re fucking blind. Just makes our job easier in the long run.”

Rick considered that as he stared at the ceiling. “They’re making it harder and harder for anyone to work off their debts to society, you know,” he stated abruptly. His eyes rolled down so that he could see the other man. “You didn’t even do anything. Do you know what your contract is worth?”

Frowning, Daryl shook his head. Rick returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“One hundred thousand credits.”

Daryl’s insides froze. A hundred thousand? He’d thought the two hundred credits Rick had used to buy his contract had been a lot of money. How the hell could he ever work off a hundred thousand bucks? As if he heard Daryl’s thoughts, Rick’s lips twitched.

“Your contract stipulates that you earn a little over two credits a day.” He sat up, exhaling heavily. “It’d take you a little over a hundred years to pay it all off.” He gave Daryl a pained smile. “It’s a life sentence.”

Daryl’s heart started pounding. He’d known that he was sentenced to life as a slave, but…he’d always assumed that he’d end up working it off and spending the last few years of his life in an ex-con nursing home. These contracts were supposed to be proportionate to the crime committed. How the fuck was this fair??

Rick sighed, leaning his forearms on his knees. “They’ve made the amounts higher and higher. For the people the government doesn’t want to be sold at all, they set the price so high that even the wealthy don’t want to be that deep in debt. After all, buying a contract is just like putting a down payment on a nice car. Cars and people devalue over time. They ask themselves, ‘What’s the point?’”

Daryl swallowed hard. “Can you even…if we win, can you even _afford_ to pay off all of our contracts?”

Rick looked up so sharply that his balance wavered, and he sank clumsily against the side of his chair. He glared up at Daryl.

“Of _fucking course_ I can. You think I’d have bought you if I couldn’t? You see the size of this place? I could sell all of it, pay off your contracts, and _still_ have enough money left over to get Carl and Judith a mansion of their own.” He paused. “Well, a _smaller_ mansion, anyway. A big house. Really big.”

Daryl sighed. “Alright, that’s good to know, I guess.” He hesitated, then reached out to place a hand on Rick’s shoulder. The nobleman started, but he didn’t pull away. He looked up at Daryl with bleak, drunk eyes. Daryl shook his head. “You should go to bed. I think you’ve had enough.”

“It’s never enough,” Rick replied in a low, quiet voice. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I can’t make them…I can’t make it stop.”

“I’ll make it stop,” Daryl promised unthinkingly. Rick lowered his hand and looked up at him, his expression inscrutable. Daryl squeezed his shoulder. “Whatever it is, I’ll make it stop, okay? Just…lay off the booze. For your kids.”

Rick stared at him for so long that Daryl started to get worried. Eventually, the nobleman gave him a slow nod.

“I’ll try.” Rick rose to his feet, but he almost immediately tipped to the side. Daryl darted forward, slipping the nobleman’s arm over his shoulder. Rick lowered his eyes. “Sorry.”

“‘S no problem,” Daryl muttered. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Rick nodded. Together, they managed to work their way out of the office and up the stairs. Rick stumbled a few times as they climbed, but he seemed reasonably steady for the most part. On the third landing, Daryl brought them to a clumsy halt. Rick’s shoulders hunched, and he twisted so that he was facing away from the wall. Daryl frowned at him.

“Which floor is your bedroom on, anyway?” The nobleman didn’t reply. Annoyed, Daryl used the arm he had wrapped around Rick’s waist to jostle him. “Rick?”

“Fifth. I’m on the fifth floor.” Rick’s eyes were wide, and he looked hunted. His breath, reeking of alcohol, blew into Daryl’s face. Daryl frowned, though he didn’t terribly mind. He’d certainly smelled worse over the course of his life. He sighed.

“Fifth floor it is.” He began walking up the stairs again, but Rick startled him by taking the stairs a bit faster than before. Daryl forced him to slow down. “Easy there, man. No need to rush.”

“Sorry.”

Shaking his head, Daryl kept them to a pace that he figured _probably_ wouldn’t end with the two of them cracking their heads open on the stairs. After a small eternity of climbing, they finally reached the fifth floor of the east wing. With Rick’s vague directions, Daryl managed to find the lord of the manor’s room. He opened the door with difficulty, pushed it wide open, and then hauled Rick inside. Surprisingly, the room wasn’t the expansive cavern he’d always assumed it must be. It was tastefully—if sparsely—furnished, and its dimensions were only a little larger than Daryl’s room. The four-poster bed took up most of the room’s empty space, and it was dressed with what looked like soft linen sheets. At the bottom of the duvet, a hand-knitted quilt had been folded with care and set atop the soft, fluffy blanket. The room was startlingly cold compared to the hallway.

Daryl managed to get Rick to the bed, and he sat the other man down upon it. Rick bounced once upon landing, then frowned at his feet. When the nobleman leaned forward to tackle his expensive boots, Daryl quickly placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him upright.

“I got it, man. Just relax.” Once Rick nodded his agreement, Daryl set to the laces on Rick’s stupidly complicated boots. He managed to loosen them enough to tug the boots off Rick’s feet. He chucked them at the wall behind him, where they landed with dull thuds. Rick smiled.

“Beth designed those, you know. If you scuffed them, she’s going to be pissed.”

Daryl snorted. “She can take it out of both of our hides. You’re the one too drunk to get them off yourself.”

Rick frowned. “I could have done it myself.”

“Really?” Daryl raised an eyebrow as he rose to his feet. Rick dropped his eyes.

“…Probably.” With a sigh, the nobleman fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He managed to get out of the long sleeves, and his hands immediately dropped to the hem of his white undershirt. He peeled it off awkwardly, revealing a surprisingly well-muscled chest. Daryl awkwardly cleared his throat and looked away. Rick huffed a short laugh. “I’m not a woman, Daryl. You’re allowed to look.”

Daryl scowled, folding his arms over his chest. “Shut up and finish getting ready for bed.”

“Ordering me to strip, are we?” Rick teased. Daryl’s cheeks flooded with heat, and he turned his back on the other man.

“Dick,” he grumbled. “See if I help you again.”

Rick fell quiet for a moment. His belt buckle clicked in the silence, followed shortly by the whisper of fabric sliding down his legs. Daryl shifted uncomfortably. Finally, he heard the rustle of the duvet as Rick pulled it back. Turning back, he moved to the nobleman’s side and helped him get into bed. His hands brushed over warm skin, and he awkwardly snatched them back. Rick settled beneath the blanket, sighing heavily and closing his eyes. Daryl hovered for a moment more, then turned to leave. He stopped by the wall panel, squinted at it, and pressed a button that killed the lights in the room.

Before he could leave, Rick’s voice floated through the darkness.

“Thank you, Daryl.”

The faint vulnerability in the nobleman’s tone made Daryl turn back. Rick, still visible in the light from the hallway, was looking at him through barely open eyes. Daryl nodded.

“Like I said, it’s no problem.”

“Most people don’t really…” Rick trailed off. Daryl frowned.

“They don’t what?” The nobleman didn’t reply. “Rick?”

No response. Sighing, Daryl stepped through the doorway and reached to close the door behind him. Just before it clicked shut, he heard Rick mutter, “Please make it stop.”

Daryl paused, then pushed the door open a bit. Rick’s eyes were closed. After a moment, Daryl decided to reply anyway.

“You got it.” He watched as Rick made a contorted face and rolled over in his giant bed. Wordlessly, he closed the door. He made his way back down the stairs, frowning thoughtfully. When he reached the third landing, he finally noticed the painting on the wall. A beautiful, dark-haired woman looked at him through the frame, her eyes soft and faintly sad. Remembering the way Rick had reacted to stopping here, and abruptly recalling Carol’s warning from his first morning at the manor, he inhaled sharply.

“You must be Lady Grimes,” he realized aloud, his voice soft. A strange part of him wanted to reach out and touch the painting, but he stifled the impulse. His frown grew, and he pulled away from the painting. Turning, he continued down the stairs.

Somehow, he could feel her gaze on his back with every step he took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a sinking feeling that the chapters are only going to get longer from here. ^_^;; Thank you all for being so encouraging!!!!! *cuddleseseseses* It really helped motivate me. ^_^ Plus, writing on my new tablet is ALL SORTS OF FUN, so with luck, I'll be able to get the next chapter out a bit sooner. Until now, I couldn't really write at work, and I commute 5 hours a day, so the only time I had to work on this story was the weekends. Now I can write on the train! *fistpump*


	7. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I basically spent all of October and November either on business trips, preparing for them, or dealing with the aftermath of them, and whenever things calmed down, I was hit by a massive case of writer's block. -_- I need to thank a few people for helping me past it: Hetty, Holly, and that lovely domesticity fluff anon on [tumblr](http://akaitsume.tumblr.com/) who kept sending me all sorts of adorable family!Rickyl headcanons. This one's for you!! T_T
> 
> As always, a HUGE THANK YOU to my AMAZING betas, [Redneckwoman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Redneckwoman/pseuds/Redneckwoman) and [limitlessskyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/limitlessskyes/pseuds/limitlessskyes), who caught a lot of my goof-ups. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. -_-

Rick stepped into Carl's room and folded his arms, raising an eyebrow questioningly. Seated at a small desk in a well-lit corner of his bedroom, his son looked up at him, the very picture of innocence.

"Something wrong, Dad?" Carl tapped a pencil against the book laid in front of him. His homework, supposedly. Rick sighed, rubbing a hand against his temple.

"You skipped Carol's lecture yesterday." Rick frowned down at his son. "Are you going to tell me why?"

Carl lowered his eyes guiltily, but the set of his jaw showed a hint of defiance. "It's nothing against Carol, Dad. It's just…the stuff she likes to teach are for the really little kids. Not me."

"Carol knows a lot of things, Carl," Rick reminded him sharply. "No matter how old you are, you can always stand to learn something." A thought occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes. "You weren't ditching because the class was full of the contractors' kids, were you?"

Carl's jaw dropped. "Wha—no! Dad, of course not!" Visibly offended, Carl threw his shoulders back and sat up straight in his chair, glaring at his father. "You know I wouldn't do anything like that!"

Rick felt tension ease in his shoulders. "Tell me why."

Carl eyed him, frowning. "Because they're my equals, Dad," he replied slowly. Realization abruptly dawned in his eyes, and he slumped in his seat. "Was I…being disrespectful to Miss Carol?"

Noting the sudden use of a title, Rick nodded firmly. "Extremely, son. You might as well have told her that you don't think she had anything worth saying to you."

Carl winced, and he set his pencil down, giving up any pretense of doing work. "I'm sorry, Dad. I really didn't mean to."

"Apologize to her, not to me." Rick rubbed at his temple again, trying to stifle the faint hangover that had been hounding him since he woke up. Ironic that he'd have one today, after drinking significantly less than he usually did during his binges, thanks to Daryl's intervention. "Why did you skip it, anyway?"

Carl blinked at him, clearly surprised. "You don't know?"

Rick lowered his hand and frowned. "Should I?"

"I just assumed…" He hesitated, then continued. "I snuck out to meet Daryl. Since…you weren't home."

Rick silently processed that. Was that why Daryl had come looking for him the previous night? He pursed his lips. "I didn't give you permission to meet him yet."

"No, but you made him one of us," Carl protested. "I'm part of your rebellion too, Dad. If you trust somebody, I need to meet him and see why. I'm not a child." His eyes cut away. "And, you know, if anything ever happened to you, I—"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Rick cut in dryly. He could hear a ring of truth in Carl's words, but there was something out of place in his story. He narrowed his eyes. "I suppose it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you think how he handled his auction was cool, huh?"

Carl flushed tellingly, and Rick sighed. His son always seemed to latch onto the violent ones. Shaking his head, Rick ran a hand through his hair.

"You're right that I trust my people, and you're right that you should know why," he conceded. "But my rules are in place for a _reason_ , Carl. You need to trust me, and you have to listen to me." When a fairly mulish expression settled on Carl's face, Rick walked over to his son and leaned against his desk. "Carl, people are getting killed out there. People who would've helped us. We don't know exactly who did it or why. We have to be careful." He leaned closer, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. Carl looked up at him, his expression tense and faintly worried.

"Dad…"

"I know you're not a child anymore," Rick continued gently. "But I have to protect you. You and Judith…you're everything to me. You understand that, right?"

Rick watched as the fight flowed out of his son. Carl's eyes drooped, and he nodded slowly.

"Yeah, Dad. I get it," he replied reluctantly.  "But…since I've already met him…"

Rick sighed and straightened. "Leave the poor man alone, Carl. He's still getting used to us, and he doesn't need the young lord of the manor dogging his footsteps."

"But, Dad!"

"No buts. Leave it." He gently ruffled his son's hair, smiling when the teenager grumbled but allowed it. "And make sure you go apologize to Carol today. Make it good."

Carl nodded, ashamed. "Yes, sir."

"And you have lessons with Hershel today. You miss those, I'll let him come up with a punishment for you."

Carl paled. "I won't miss them!" he promised. Rick fought back a smile. Hershel was a kind soul, but he was easily the most creative of everyone at the manor when it came to finding a fitting punishment for any "crime." Once, he'd sat down Rick himself and forced him to sit through three solid hours of explanatory videos on the legal system when he'd failed to file some paperwork on time. Rick never missed a deadline again.

Lips twitching, Rick tipped his head at the door. "Is Judy in her nursery?"

Carl shook his head, picking up his pencil. "Uh, no. Beth has her today. She's watching both Judy and Sophia." His voice took on a hint of resentment towards the end. Rick raised an eyebrow, but he didn't comment.

"Alright. I'll have to pop in on them." He made his way to the door, but he paused before leaving and have his son a hard look. "Don't forget."

"I won't, I won't. Go away," Carl grumbled irritably. Snorting, Rick left the room.

* * *

 

Carl frowned at his door agreed his father left the room, one hand lifting to rub ruefully at the nape of his neck. His father was right, and he knew that they all had to be careful, particularly him, but... Carl was the heir. If anything happened to his father, the entire Georgia arm of the rebellion would fall on his shoulders. Their plan wouldn't work without a noble, and the other nobles in the state weren't exactly lining up. He had to learn more than his father wanted him to if he was going to be ready.

He grimaced again and dropped his hand back to his desk. _Offending the people I rely on isn't a good way to go about it, though. Stupid!_ he berated himself. _Do it right or don't do it at all._

He flinched guiltily at the old saying from Shane. Instinctively, he glanced at the door as if his father could somehow hear his thoughts. Shaking his head, he set to work on the homework that Carol had apparently assigned the day before. Maybe it would make a decent apology. With a sigh, he began to write.

* * *

 

Sasha scowled at her computer, listening to the chatter around the police den as she refreshed her email for the hundredth time. Still no word from CSI, still no evidence of forced entry, and still no indication of _how_ an entire household had been Pacified and poisoned. She knew it could take several days or weeks for CSI to find anything useful, and even then, it could only support her case, not make it for her.

It would certainly help if she had some _suspects_. As far as she could tell, nobody had a solid motive to kill Lady Alberich. Rick was the closest she had, and not only did he have an alibi thanks to his home security records, but it also wouldn't make sense for him to murder his biggest supporter. He wouldn't put their chance at a peaceful resolution for all this in jeopardy just to move up a rank. Sasha sighed. Her gut said that the Governor was behind this, but she couldn't find a shred of evidence to prove it. Just like Rick, he had a solid alibi. And how could either of them have done it? Nobody knew of any way to Pacify an entire group at once, and it had the entire police den spooked.

A paper cup full of coffee was abruptly set down in front of her, snapping Sasha out of her thoughts. A young man with blond hair, clearly a newbie,  gave her an awkward smile.

"Any luck?" he asked gently. Sighing heavily, Sasha leaned back in her chair. It squeaked in protest like the cheap piece of junk it was. She shook her head.

"Not yet." She scowled and grabbed the cup of coffee. The bitter flavor washed over her tongue, and she immediately felt the tension in her neck start to loosen. Nodding her thanks, she set the cup back down. She gestured at her computer. "How am I supposed to figure out who did it if I can't figure out _how_ they did it?"

He shrugged, still smiling weakly. "Well, if anyone can, it'd be you. You're…I dunno, Superwoman!"

Sasha's lips twitched, and she took another sip of coffee. "I'd correct you, but I kind of like that."

His weak smile bloomed into a grin. "I can keep calling you that, then?"

Despite herself, Sasha found herself grinning. She waved imperiously. "You may. Inform the men of my new title."

He laughed. "So you _do_ have a sense of humor!" he crowed. His face immediately fell, and he slapped a hand over his mouth. A blush crept over his cheeks. "I, uh. I mean…"

Sasha shook her head, still smiling. "Relax, pipsqueak. I'm not going to bite your head off. Whatever these people have told you about me, forget it. Yes, I have a sense of humor."

He gave her a relieved smile. "Good to know. Sorry. It's just…I heard that the chief is afraid of you, so…"

"That's because I don't take his shit." The kid's eyes widened at her use of profanity, and she fought to keep from rolling her eyes. "I don't pick on the people below me. I just hand my superiors their asses when necessary." She gave him a shark-like grin.

He chuckled again. "Uh, duly noted, I guess." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Do you mind if I ask who you think did it? Because I heard some of the others saying that they think it was Lord Grimes."

Sasha bit back a sharp reply, her smile vanishing. "It wasn't him," she forced herself to reply evenly. She looked around the police den, catching some eyes that were watching her curiously. She sighed. "Why would he do it? He's trying to get Pacification stopped, and she was his buddy when it came to that. He's now that much less likely to get those stupid laws repealed."

Another beat cop leaned around the computer on his desk, his eyebrows furrowed. "Sure, that's true, but he's kind of a creepy bastard, isn't he? I mean, buying people for sex the way he does. That shit isn't right."

"And there's the fact that he's already gotten away with murder," a detective muttered as she walked by Sasha's desk. "What's to stop him when he already knows he can get away with it?"

"It was self-defense," Sasha reminded them firmly, though she got dubious looks in reply. They all remembered the pictures of those men once Grimes was through with them. Changing tack, she followed her statement with, "And he isn't the only one. I can think of a lot of people at the top of the food chain who are convinced that they can get away with anything. People with access to more technology than Lord Grimes."

Her colleagues' faces darkened, each one no doubt thinking of a politician or noble who'd bent the rules to suit themselves. She leaned forward, directing her attention to her computer screen. She pulled up a search window.

"I'll grant you that Grimes is a creepy SOB, but he isn't our man on this one. He's trying to help... sort of. You guys telling me that you don't want some of these Pacification laws repealed?"

Grumbles met her question, but they all seemed to grudgingly agree. Newbie bit his lip, still hosting in front of her desk.

"So if it wasn't Lord Grimes, who was it?"

Sasha grimaced. "Someone with technology we don't want them to have."

* * *

 

Daryl walked cautiously down the hallway on Rick's floor, poking his head into a few rooms. The nobleman was nowhere to be found, not in his room with its still-rumpled sheets, not in his office, the gym, or the kitchen. His lips flattening, Daryl paused in the middle of the hallway and folded his arms. He could hear rain smacking the windows in a nearby open room, filling the otherwise quiet space with constant noise. He grimaced. Where could Rick be?

As he stood awkwardly in the hallway, a lock turned in a room a few doors down from him. Moments later, Carl stepped out of his room, arms full of books and notebooks. The teenager froze upon spotting Daryl, then grinned.

"Daryl! What are you doing up here?" Carefully gripping his books, he hustled over to Daryl's side. The older man cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I'm looking for your pop. Know where he is?"

Carl somehow managed to shrug despite his burden. "He's probably playing with my sister. Why are you looking for him?"

Daryl eyed the young man in front of him. "Well, I meant to tell him about running into you yesterday last night, but I didn't get the chance." When Carl visibly drooped, he lifted an eyebrow. "He already knows, I'm guessing?"

Carl sighed. "Yeah, I told him. He said I should leave you alone."

Daryl frowned reflexively. "Why?"

Carl, who was apparently fairly intuitive, immediately shook his head. "It's not because of you. He doesn't want me pestering you when I have other stuff to be learning," he rushed to assure him, though his voice grew petulant towards the end of his statement. Shoulders relaxing, Daryl shook his head.

"Listen to your dad. The house is full of smart people. I'm sure you'll be fine."

Carl nodded absently, his eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah, I know. I just…"

Daryl shook his head again and stepped to the side. "You're probably late for somethin'. Go on and git."

Carl winced, and he obediently moved past the other man. Daryl watched him leave, but he couldn't stop himself from calling out just before the boy hit the stairs.

"You ain't mad at me for tryin' to talk to your dad about meeting you?"

Carl threw him an incredulous look over his shoulder. "I wanted you to not tell my teacher where I was and buy me some time. I wasn't asking you to lie to my _dad_."

Daryl's lips twitched. "Alright then."

Carl turned back to the stairwell, then hesitated. "I'm glad you weren't trying to keep secrets from him," he replied hesitantly.

Daryl frowned. "Of course."

Carl glanced over his shoulder at him, smiling briefly. Without another word, the boy disappeared down the stairs. Daryl hovered awkwardly, keenly aware of the fact that he was alone with nothing to do. He grimaced. It would probably be best if he still went to speak to the lord about his son, if only so that Rick wouldn't think that Daryl were hiding anything. With a sigh, he turned to walk down the hallway—and abruptly realized that he still had no idea where the other man was. Where on earth would Rick play with his daughter?

Groaning, he trotted after the teenager. "Carl! Wait!"

* * *

 

Rick grinned at Judith as she raced around Beth's studio, balancing as best she could as she tried to peer at the seamstress' worktable. Thankfully, Beth was always careful with her materials, and everything sharp was stored well away from inquisitive little fingers. The young woman gave Judith an indulgent smile when the toddler made her way over to her ankles.

"Done?" Judith asked, bouncing on her chubby heels in excitement. Beth shot Rick an amused glance.

"Almost, sweet pea." She carefully glued a sequin onto the round monstrosity in her hands. "Daddy's going to be the handsomest king there ever was."

Judith squealed, clapping her hands. "Kig Daddy! Kig Daddy!"

Rick, clutching a bright purple, plastic scepter, laughed. "Princess, you know, you should ask Beth to make you a crown before she makes mine," he tried. "Isn't the princess more important than the king?"

Judith came to a compete stop as she pondered this, her little face scrunching up. After a moment's serious consideration, she batted at Beth's knee.

"Me! Me me me!" A wide grin accompanied her demands. "Beth me?"

The young woman gave Rick a sardonic glance, then smiled at the toddler. "Alright, alright. You'll get your crown first, sweet pea. Your daddy is off the hook."

Judith let loose a peal of laughter, bobbing in place. "Me!"

Beth set aside the large felt and sequin crown she'd been working on, and she picked up a handful of fabric scraps. She fanned them out in front of Judith, showing her the colors. Judith pointed straight at the green felt.

"Green it is." Beth set the other colors aside and picked up her scissors, cutting the fabric with the ease of years of practice. Rick watched her, smiling, and then waved his hand to get his daughter's attention.

"Come here, Princess," he rumbled. Judith glanced at him over her shoulder, looked back at Beth, and reluctantly decided to give up her post at the seamstress' feet. She toddled over to her father, babbling out a series of baby words as she went. Grinning, Rick set aside his scepter and slid his hands beneath her armpits. He hoisted her easily, earning a delighted giggle, and set her down in his lap. Judith immediately picked up the abandoned toy and waved it in her father's face, chattering excitedly. Rick nodded at appropriate intervals.

 _She should have the whole world to charm_ , he mused. Judith cut herself off by shoving the scepter in her mouth. He gently tugged it back out. _She shouldn't be trapped in this mausoleum._

Rick frowned. That wasn't particularly fair of him. The manor had become a refuge for the majority of the people within its walls, if not all of them. He sighed, jiggling his knee so that his daughter would bounce. She giggled, and he gave her a fond smile.  Refuge or not, he didn't want her to spend her entire life as a secret, hidden behind walls for her own safety. She deserved better.

Closing his eyes, he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. _I'll make it better for you, Judy. I promise._

An abrupt knock rapped against the door. Raising his eyebrows, Rick looked to Beth. She lifted her head. "C'mon in," she called.

The door opened slowly, revealing a slightly awkward-looking Daryl. His eyes dropped straight to Judith, who gazed up at him curiously. Unbidden, Rick curled a protective hand around the back of her head, making his baby girl look up at him. Daryl caught the motion, and his eyes softened. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, Rick. Got a minute?"

Rick stared up at him from his position on the floor, then slowly nodded. "Yeah, I do." He gingerly lifted his daughter off his knee and set her on the thin, cream-colored carpet. Judith pulled her scepter out of her mouth and frowned.

"Daddy?"

Rick smiled at her reassuringly. "It's alright, sweetheart. Daddy will be back in a minute." He pressed another kiss to the crown of her head. "Let Beth finish your crown, okay?"

"Kown!" she agreed emphatically, and she toddled back over to Beth's side. Beth immediately handed her some pieces of fabric, which quickly absorbed Judith's attention. Rick watched her fan the pieces out on the floor and study them, sorting them by some criteria only she understood. Smiling gently, Rick took the opportunity to slip out the door. Daryl moved aside obligingly, and he shut the door behind the nobleman. Daryl kept his eyes trained on the door for a moment longer.

"So, uh. That's your daughter." He shifted his weight awkwardly, stuffing his hands on his pockets as he did so. "She's cute."

A swell of emotion made Rick clench his jaw, and he balled his fists for a second before releasing them. He liked Daryl, that much was true, but he wasn't ready for the other man to meet his daughter, the most vulnerable person in Rick's life. Part of him, the irrational part that he’d desperately tried to push down every day since Lori died, wanted to lash out at the other man for setting foot near his child. Taking a deep breath, Rick forced down the black, nonsensical rage that was trying to well up within his chest. _He isn't here to hurt Judith. She isn't in any danger right now. Calm. Calm._

When his eyes focused again, Daryl was staring at him strangely. With difficulty, Rick recalled their conversation.

"Yes, she is," he replied gruffly. "Was there something you needed?"

Daryl eyed him warily, then dropped his eyes and rubbed a hand against the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about something. About Carl." He raised his eyes, locking them with Rick's. "I was going to tell you yesterday that I ran into him, but I didn't get the chance. He told me that he already told you about it."

Rick's eyebrows rose. "He did. I take it you ran into him again today?"

The other man nodded. "He told me where to come and find you. Said you were playing with your little girl." He shrugged awkwardly. "He's a good kid."

Rick couldn't stop the small smile that was crossing his face. "He is, when he isn't being a little troublemaker."

Daryl smirked. "Ain't that a kid's job? To get in trouble and give their parents heart attacks?"

Rick huffed a short laugh. "Fair enough." His brief smile faded. "I appreciate you coming to tell me."

"I'm not trying to keep secrets from you," Daryl replied stiffly. "He's your kid, and I'm new. I figured you'd want to know."

"You figured right." Rick sighed. "Thanks, Daryl. And…thanks for last night, as well."

Daryl shrugged again. "Wasn't any trouble. How's the head?"

Rick felt his lips twitch upwards. "Better than it would have been if you hadn't intervened. I'm…" He hesitated briefly. "I'm sorry that you had to help me get upstairs. It wasn't very professional of me."

Daryl frowned at him. "Hey, it's not like anybody can argue that you don't have a lot on your plate. I'm not exactly shocked."

Rick flinched involuntarily, unable to suppress the impulse. Daryl winced and waved a hand.

"That's not what I meant," he continued hastily. "I just meant…everybody has issues, right? Everybody copes differently."

"Right," Rick replied hesitantly. He lowered his gaze for a moment, images of Lori and her sad, accusing gaze briefly flashing in his mind's eye. How could he stop drinking? How else could he get her to stop looking at him that way? How could he get _him_ to stop? He rubbed his forehead wearily, raising his eyes once more. Daryl was watching him, eyebrows furrowed. The archer cleared his throat.

"Not that you gotta take me up on it or nothing," he started, voice low and hesitant, "but you can always come talk to me if you need somebody to talk to. I might not know what to say, but I'm good at listening."

Startled, Rick stared at him for a long moment. Slowly, he replied, "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Daryl."

The other man nodded awkwardly, racing up to rub at the back of his neck. "No problem." He shifted his weight, transferred his gaze to the wall, and then shrugged stiffly. "Guess I should let you get back to the little one, huh? I'm sure Dale can find me something to do."

Rick nodded cautiously. "Alright. I'll see you at lunch?"

Daryl bobbed his head. "Yeah." He gave Rick an odd, searching look, then abruptly turned and made his way down the hall. Rick watched him go, frowning faintly. Once the other man was no longer in sight, Rick turned back to Beth's studio and opened the door. He stilled immediately, a smile breaking out on his face. Beth grinned up at him.

"Before you say anything, I had nothing to do with this," she informed him succinctly, voice light with restrained laughter. Rick chuckled.

"I'm sure you didn't." Stepping forward, Rick shut the door behind him and crouched down. His daughter had turned herself into a giant, multilayered burrito, all rolled up in what looked like eight different swaths of fabric. Her tiny face poked out from the little hole she'd left herself.

"Daddy!" Giggling, Judith rolled back and forth across the carpeted floor. "Dadadadada baba."

"Of course, sweetheart," Rick agreed. Grinning, he settled down on the floor, content to watch his daughter's antics. Beth watched him as she continued sewing the little felt crown that Judith had asked for.

"What did Daryl want with you?"

Rick kept his eyes on Judith, his grin fading. "He wanted to tell me that he ran into Carl yesterday so that I wouldn't be suspicious of him."

Beth hummed absently. "He seems like a good egg, doesn't he?" She picked up a handful of plastic jewels, eyeing them critically. "Shows up at every meal, doesn't complain about the work he's given. He doesn't talk much, but I think he's trying."

Rick smiled faintly. "That so?"

"Yup." She looked up at him, her eyes serious. "I think you made the right choice."

Eyebrows rising, Rick gave her a considering look. For all that Beth was young, she did seem to have a strong sense of character. As time passed, she grew more and more comfortable with telling Rick exactly what she thought of people. He smiled faintly. She'd come a long way from the tortured girl he first met. "Yeah?"

She smiled and turned back to her work. "Every now and then, you seem to get things right, Lord Grimes," she replied loftily.

Rick chuckled again, finally reaching out to grab his burrito of a daughter as she came rolling by. "When did you get so sassy?" he wondered aloud. Beth sniffed.

"I learned from the best!"

"Me?"

"Not even close."

Rick sighed, extracting a giggling Judith from the cloth. He shook his head at her. "The things I put up with."

Judith shoved her fist in her mouth and grinned.

* * *

 

The Governor smiled at the television, watching as the muted news channel anchor expressed her condolences for Lady Alberich. No mention was made as to how the noblewoman died before the program switched to something else, some puff piece about a lost dog being rediscovered. The Governor glanced up at the young Asian woman standing beside his large, wingbacked chair. He lifted a glass, and she obediently filled it with a fragrant red wine. He inhaled deeply, swirling the liquid in the glass as he did so. Sighing, he looked up once more.

"Nothing quite like a classic red, is there?" he asked rhetorically. "We can try and try, but you can't top perfection."

She watched him dispassionately.  "No, sir, I suppose not."

The Governor took a sip. After he swallowed, he held the glass out before him, admiring the way the sunlight caught the wine.

"Do you know what my mother one told me about wine?" He paused, but his new assistant remained silent. "She said that a good wine is like a kiss, warm and heady. But a great wine, the kind you drink after a victory?" He took another sip. "It's like drinking the blood of your enemies. Can't get much more satisfying than that."

He turned to face her directly, the leather of the chair squeaking as he moved. He lifted the glass to the light once more. "What do you think?"

Her eyes flicked down to the wine, then back up. He expression remained flat. "Are we celebrating a victory, sir?"

He chuckled, lifting one finger from the glass to point at her. "Now see that, that I like. _We._ After all, we're all in this together, aren't we? A team."

"Yes, sir."

The Governor glanced back at the television screen. The anchors were talking about something else now, pictures of some national park dancing behind their heads. It was apparently on fire. He hummed idly, ideas churning through his head. Ideas that even the elusive Lord Grimes wouldn't be able to interfere with. His smile widened, and he stood up. Air hissed back into the leather cushion behind him. Turning, he handed his wine glass to his assistant. At a short nod from him, she drank it. His lips parted, baring his teeth.

"Well? What do you think?"

She swallowed, her lips stained red. Licking them slowly, she fixed her blank eyes on him.

"It tastes like blood, sir."

The Governor's eyes flashed as a sudden wave of desire raced through him. Perhaps Lord Grimes had a point with his refusal to Pacify his servants. All of them, at least. He stepped forward, carding a hand through her hair.

"Indeed it does." His eyes grew hard, but she didn't step away. His fingers tightened in her hair. "Indeed it does."

* * *

 

Daryl muttered crossly at the axel above him, fingers fumbling as he looked for the irregularity that he could feel when he took the damn thing for a short test drive around the courtyard. A pair of boots came to a stop next to his head, and he switched his glare to them.

"Problem, old timer?" he grouched. Dale chuckled.

"Not much of one. Just felt a storm brewing over here, thought I'd check it out. You alright, son?"

Daryl stomped firmly on the bubble of warmth that rose inside his chest at the endearment. Sighing, he shook his head. "I'm fine. You can go back to work."

Dale shifted his weight, but he didn't leave. Twisting his head, Daryl squinted up at the other man, who seemed to be leaning against another vehicle. Daryl grimaced.

"You seem to be settling in okay," Dale stated abruptly. "Now that you know."

Daryl frowned, and he reluctantly dropped his hands to rest on his legs. "What, you didn't when you first signed on to this idiot crusade?"

Dale paused, and his silence chafed at Daryl. Age a long moment, the older man replied, "Is that what you think of us?"

Sighing heavily, Daryl debated rolling out from underneath the car, but as he put a hand on the damaged axel to do so, he lost the enthusiasm for it. He shook his head, even though the other man couldn't see him.

"I can think it's a good cause and still think we're all crazy, can't I?" he grumbled. "I don't see how anything you guys have cooked up is going to work, but I'm willing to help. How much more do you want from me?"

Dale didn't immediately reply, but he could somehow _feel_ the other man's approving gaze. "I'll take it, son. You're willing to be here, and you're willing to help." He hesitated. "Are you willing to fight?"

"Said I was, didn't I?"  Exasperated, he pushed off the axel and rolled out just enough to glare up at the old veteran. "Guns ain't my favorite weapon, but I'll use it."

"Oh? What do you like?"

"Told Rick, I like using my crossbow." His lips curled down, suddenly reminded of the fact that nothing he owned was his anymore. "I mean, I _liked_ using my old crossbow. Rick was thinking of getting me a new one, I think."

Dale lifted a bushy, white eyebrow. "That what you want?"

Daryl shrugged. "It'll do." He squinted up at the other man. "Can I get back to work in peace now?"

Dale smiled at him. "Alright, alright, don't get your panties in a twist." He laughed at Daryl's instant scowl. "No offense meant, son."

Letting out a disgruntled noise, Daryl rolled back under the car. He scowled up at the axel. "Stupid piece of shit car, why am I even bothering?" he mumbled. Dale laughed again as he walked away.

"Just give her some love, Daryl. She'll come around."

Daryl cussed under his breath, but he didn't reply. Both men went back to work in a companionable silence.

* * *

 

Glenn ran a frustrated hand through his hair, grimacing down at the stack of newspapers on his desk. Each of the local papers and two of the national newspapers had Lady Alberich's murder on the first page, screaming headlines like, "Anti-Pacification Noblewoman and household slain! Police stumped!"

And each article went on to describe her connections to Rick. Sighing, Glenn pressed a small, round, black button on his desk and waited for a faint ping. After a moment, his office's PA panel lit up, a red banner trawling across the bottom of the screen to denote a private channel.

"You need something, Glenn?" Rick asked from his own office, voice slightly hoarse as it came through the hidden speakers throughout the room. Glenn sighed again.

"I'm looking at the papers, Rick. It isn't looking terribly good," he admitted reluctantly. "Nobody's blaming you outright, not yet at least, but there's an awful lot of speculation."

A moment's silence followed. Glenn scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly aware of his cramped office growing steadily warmer. He reached down to slide open a drawer, the old wood creaking in protest as it moved. He shuffled a few sticks of glue and rods of tape aside until his fingers landed upon a sleek, flat remote. He held up the remote triumphantly and pointed it at the panel. The temperature lowered on command, and he exhaled as the air conditioning audibly kicked on.

Through the speakers, Rick cleared his throat. "Why are they blaming me? Everyone knows she was my biggest ally," he replied, a hint of frustration entering his tone. "Why would I kill her?"

"I think that's why nobody is pointing any fingers directly at you." Glenn leaned back in his high-backed chair, the soft cushion cradling his stiff back. "Aside from you now being the most influential member of the nobility in Georgia, nobody can find a motive for you. Not one that makes any sense."

"Does anyone else have a motive?" The faint sound of papers rustling came through the line. "Aside from the Governor."

Glenn frowned, and he absently began to pivot back and forth in his chair. He looked up at the discreet vents in the ceiling as he twisted.

"I don't think so. And nobody's really pointing any fingers at him, either. Mostly because they're afraid to." The air from the vents caught his hair and tussled it, and he stilled. He snorted abruptly. "Of course, they're all scared spitless of you, too."

Rick made some indistinct noise, making Glenn smile. He tilted his head, caring his eyes over his cluttered desk. A framed picture of Maggie grinned up at him, her eyes squinted in happiness. Gingerly, he reached out a hand to stroke the edge of the frame.

"This isn't good, Rick," he continued softly. "The last thing you need is for your supporters to think you're going to turn on them, especially if they can't figure out how you're doing it. The papers aren't talking about the tech that was used, but they know something strange is up."

Rick paused, the weight of his disapproval coming through as loud as if he'd shouted it. "What can I do?"

Glenn tipped his head back and ground it into the soft cushion. "You already appointed a good replacement, so there's that. You may have to make some sort of announcement regarding your commitment to the cause. Drum up some new interest so that the others don't get spooked."

Rick made a noise of acknowledgement. Glenn could hear him rifling through papers again. "Any recommendations?"

Glenn grimaced, and he looked around the room. By chance, his eyes fell upon an open page of a newspaper at his feet. He sat up slowly as he took in a picture of some high society types laughing it up at a gala of some sort.

"How do you feel about parties?"

Rick fell silent for a minute. "Not a huge fan. Why?"

"You could gather up your supporters and throw them some sort of fundraiser. Get your name out there, remind them that you’re the horse to back on this issue."

“I can’t throw a party here. We don’t want eyes in the house.”

Glenn shook his head. “Then don’t. Rent out some building somewhere.”

Another pause. Eventually, Rick exhaled heavily. "It's a good idea. Assuming they’ll still come."

"I think they'll come. You're scary, but you're still the loudest voice in the south about this mess. Most nobles seem to like a bit of thrill with their politics."

"Can’t argue with that." Rick hesitated. "It'll still drum up more scrutiny for the household, though."

"So give us more guns," Glenn quipped. Rick hummed thoughtfully.

"Fair enough. Good work, Glenn." The panel went dark. Despite himself, Glenn felt a tiny burst of pride at the acknowledgment. Rick was more or less a normal guy, he knew that, but…it felt undeniably good to impress a nobleman, even if they were friends. Shaking his head, Glenn shoved those feelings down and vowed to never let anyone know that he felt them at all. Glenn Rhee was a pizza boy come master strategist, and he'd never been in the least bit intimidated by Rick Grimes. Not at all.

Laughing faintly at himself, Glenn shoved the remaining newspapers off his desk. He dug into his steel inbox tray, pulling out a series of household financial documents. He sighed.

"Awesome. Totally what I didn't go to school for." He picked up a stay pen and tapped it against his lips. "I wonder…" On a whim, he got up and walked over to the PA panel. Tapping a few buttons, he gave himself a direct line to the security office. "Hey, Patrick, you there?"

Two seconds later, the young man's harried voice came over the line. "Uh, Glenn? Sir?"

Glenn grinned. "Come up here for a second. I think it's time you had a lesson in finance."

"Um, yes, sir."

Feeling distinctly triumphant, Glenn released the broadcast button and returned to his chair. He shoved the finances into a separate pile he secretly titled, “Not My Problem,” and leaned back in his chair to wait. He folded his hands behind his head.

He loved not being at the bottom of the totem pole.

* * *

 

Rick leaned back in his own chair, frowning at the paperwork scattered over his desk. _Glenn’s right_ , he mused silently. _I’ll have to do something to get my supporters back in line._ Huffing a quiet breath, he reached over to the corner of his desk, picked up a small cell phone, and ran his thumb over the dark screen. In recognition of his thumbprint, the phone came to life, the light from its bright screen adding to the afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows at Rick’s back. He hovered his finger over his contacts list, then hesitated.

He wasn’t lying when he told Glenn that doing anything big would draw scrutiny to the house. Someone had already tried to breach their defenses this week with a Walker, and Lady Alberich hadn’t been murdered yet when it happened. If he put together a fundraiser or a fancy dinner of some sort, it would take him and some of his best people away from the manor, and everyone would know that. He exhaled heavily, lowering the phone. If he wanted to make sure they were all safe, he’d have to make sure that everyone who was proficient with weapons was armed properly before he even started to arrange the event. Frowning, he mentally ran through the best fighters and made a note to pick up more ammunition for their favorite weapons. As far as he knew, everyone was pretty much covered.

…Everyone except Daryl.

Rick sat up in his chair, reaching up to run the fingers of his free hand over his lips. Everyone had a weapon they preferred working with. For Michonne, it was her katana. Karen preferred assault rifles, and Carol liked her knife. Rick himself had his Colt Python. The only person in the manor who _didn’t_ have access to his preferred weapon was Daryl. Rick’s frown deepened. _I’ll have to fix that._

He glanced back down at his mountain of paperwork and grimaced. _Tomorrow._

* * *

 

A sudden knock on his bedroom door startled Daryl awake, and he lifted his face from his pillow. Blinking blearily, he awkwardly fumbled beneath it for the sliver of wood he’d placed there when he first arrived at the house. As he closed his hand around it, he inhaled sharply and shook his head.

“Uh, c’min!” he called out, releasing his grip on the makeshift weapon. He sat up, letting his duvet pool at his waist, and rubbed irritably at his left eye. Despite knowing that he was safe, he hadn’t yet managed to make himself toss the sliver of wood out. Every morning, he tried. And every morning, he failed. He sighed, looking up as the door swung open. Rick poked his head into Daryl’s room, dressed simply but elegantly in a black bespoke suit. The lord’s eyebrows rose.

“Sorry to wake you. Is this a bad time?”

Daryl glowered at him, then turned to look at the clock on his bedside table. Red LED lights spelled out 5:45am. Scowling, he turned back to Rick and pointed at the clock.

“It’s ass o’clock in the morning. Can’t say it’s a _good_ time,” he grumbled. Rick looked at him in silence for a moment, then shrugged.

“Sorry. I wanted to get an early start today before either of our schedules filled up.” Rick stepped fully into the room and gave Daryl a fleeting smile. “Assuming, of course, that you’d be up for a little road trip with me.”

Suddenly more awake, Daryl frowned up at the other man. “A road trip? To where?”

Rick’s smile returned with a bit more force than before. “It’s a surprise.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “A surprise.” When Rick nodded, Daryl continued, “What sort of surprise?”

Rick shrugged again. “One I’m hoping you’ll like. But we’d have to leave soon if we don’t want to get caught. You’d get chores to do, I’d have paperwork…” He waved a hand. “You see my problem.”

Shaking his head, Daryl threw the covers aside and stood up. The cool air in his room swirled around his exposed, boxer-clad legs. He scratched at his goatee as he walked past the other man to his dresser.

“You’re being sneaky,” he noted aloud as he tugged one of the wooden drawers open. “I’m not sure I like you being sneaky.”

Behind him, Rick chuckled. “I’m not being sneaky. I’m being practical.”

Daryl grunted in response. He plucked a uniform T-shirt out of the dresser and tugged it on, shaking it out over his stomach. The back of the embroidered insignia caught on one of his chest hairs, tugging it sharply. He grimaced and rubbed ruefully at the patch. Rick stepped forward, the sound of his shined shoes muffled by the thick carpet. The nobleman cleared his throat.

“You don’t have to wear a uniform today, if you don’t want to,” he stated awkwardly. Daryl glanced at him over his shoulder.

“I don’t feel like going to jail if we get separated,” he returned dryly. “Been there once. Didn’t take.”

Rick inclined his head in silent acknowledgement. Turning back to his dresser, Daryl pulled out a pair of jeans and slipped them on, clumsily balancing on each foot as he did so. Straightening up, he turned towards Rick. He lifted an eyebrow as he zipped up and buttoned his pants.

“Since you’re dragging me out of bed at this hour, I hope you don’t mind if I skip the shower,” he questioned wryly. Rick snorted.

“I’ll accept your funk as due punishment.” The nobleman shoved his hands in his pockets as he watched Daryl throw on some socks and jam his feet into his boots. Once Daryl had straightened, he tipped his head towards the door. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” Daryl followed the other man out of his room, his curiosity rising as they made their way down the stairs. The entire manor was quiet, making their footsteps that much more conspicuous. Daryl’s frown slowly grew. What was Rick up to?

When they passed through the empty kitchen, Rick strode past the heavy wooden table without a backwards glance. Daryl glanced at the nobleman’s back, then looked down at the covered basket of pastries and muffins in the center of the table, waiting for any hungry soul to grab some sustenance. Huffing out a short breath, Daryl quickly uncovered the basket, grabbed two muffins, and covered the basket again. A brief trot brought him back to Rick’s side, and they continued out the open far end of the kitchen into a long, window-lined hallway. When the other man glanced at him curiously, Daryl held out the extra muffin he’d grabbed.

“You didn’t exactly tell me if we’d have time to stop for breakfast,” Daryl muttered. Rick smiled and gently took the proffered muffin.

“Thanks.”

Daryl shrugged awkwardly, and he took a savage bite out of his own pastry. The sky beyond the windows was just beginning to brighten, casting strange shadows in the dark hallway. Rick reached the door to the garage first, and he swung it open, standing aside to let Daryl precede him. Daryl gave him an odd glance, but he obligingly went first into the garage, flicking on the light as he passed through the doorway. Rick pulled the door shut behind him and moved to the long key rack, selecting a set easily. Waving Daryl over to him, he approached a deep blue, unremarkable sedan. Still frowning, Daryl followed the nobleman and entered on the passenger side of the car.

“Dale know you’re taking one of his babies out?” he asked, buckling himself in. Rick snorted. The nobleman gingerly placed his muffin in one of the cupholders between their seats.

“You know, technically, these cars are mine.” He paused, then glanced at Daryl out of the corner of his eye. “If I scratch it, tell my kids I love them.”

Daryl barked out a surprised laugh. “Yeah sure. Like he’d let _me_ live.”

Rick’s smile warmed as he started the car and eased it out of its garage space. “I have hopes that he would. If he killed you, he’d have to fix the car himself.”

Daryl snorted. “True.”

Rick slowly drove the car to the front of the garage, then paused. A light in the center of the garage door’s frame turned green, and the heavy, steel paneled door jerked with a loud clang. The door slowly retreated into the ceiling. Eventually, Rick was able to drive the car out onto the dew-slicked cobblestone of the courtyard. A heavy blond man on patrol duty waved at them from his vantage point on the wall. Rick waved back. After another brief stop at the front gate to press their thumbs against the car’s panel, they were on their way, driving down the narrow driveway and pulling out onto a deserted road. The wet road hissed beneath their tires as they drove west, the sun slowly rising behind them.

After another glance at Rick, Daryl settled down in his seat, slouching enough to prop his knees up on the dashboard. Rick’s eyes flicked from the road to Daryl’s legs, but he said nothing. Daryl shifted again.

“So, do you go on road trips with all of your newbies?” he asked eventually. Rick’s lips twitched.

“Most of them. I try to spend time with as many of the adults as I can.” Rick slowed as he approached a deer that was cautiously stepping out onto the road. It spotted the car, froze for a moment, and then turned tail and bounded off into the woods lining the street. Rick cautiously accelerated. “It helps them get to know me, and it helps me get to know them.”

Daryl watched him out of the corner of his eye. “Not a bad strategy.”

Rick frowned. “It isn’t just strategy. You’re all here because you decided to help me. I owe it to all of us to at least get to know you.”

Daryl turned away, watching the scenery as it passed by. After a few minutes of silence, he sighed. “I get it. You’re trying to look out for us.”

Rick’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, making the leather squeak. “Trying, yes.”

Daryl kept his eyes on the rolling hills. Rick wasn’t lying, he knew that. Rick genuinely seemed to care about the people under his roof, the soldiers in his makeshift army. Especially if he cared so much that it was driving him to drink himself stupid every time he had to put on his Lord face. Most of the others spoke of Rick fondly as well, if a bit…distantly. Daryl rolled his head towards the nobleman and eyed him curiously.

“So who looks after you, then?”

Rick actually took his eyes off the road entirely to frown at him. “What?”

“You’re looking out for everyone. Everyone’s looking out for each other.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Who’s looking out for you?”

Rick’s frown deepened, and he returned his gaze to the road. “Arguably, everyone. Michonne keeps me and my kids safe.”

“She doesn’t stop you from drinking, though.”

Even beneath the thick beard, Daryl could see Rick’s jaw tense. “No. She doesn’t.”

“You thanked me for doing it,” Daryl pointed out quietly. Rick took a slow, even breath, relaxing his fingers on the steering wheel as he did so.

“I did. I was grateful for it.” He glanced at Daryl. “I still am.”

Daryl hesitated, uncertain if he should bring up the rest of Rick’s comments that night. _Make it stop,_ Rick had pleaded, over and over again. Was it the drinking? The charade? What? After a long debate with himself, Daryl grudgingly decided to drop it. If Rick wanted to talk, he’d listen. He wouldn’t push it.

In the end, Daryl gave him a long, considering look. “Anytime. If you need help…”

He couldn’t quite make himself finish that offer, but Rick nodded anyway.

The nobleman cleared his throat and gruffly replied, “Thanks.”

Both men fell quiet. Daryl resumed staring out the window, and he absently ate his muffin as they drove along.

***

After an hour, Daryl finally straightened in his seat and glowered at Rick.

“You could’ve told me we were going this far,” he grumbled. “I would’ve gone back to sleep.”

Rick shot him a distinctly surprised glance, his eyebrows flicking up. “Sorry.”

Daryl frowned. “What?”

“What?”

Daryl scowled. “Why are you so surprised?”

Rick glanced at him, then returned his eyes to the road. “It never occurred to me that I’d be the kind of person you’d want to go to sleep around.”

Daryl paused for a moment, his frown retreating. Dropping his gaze, he shrugged. “Well, it ain’t like you’re going to kidnap me, and I’m pretty sure you can keep your hands to yourself.”

Rick smirked, “Pretty sure, huh?”

Cheeks warming slightly, Daryl lifted an eyebrow in mimicry of Rick at his most Lord-ly. “Well, I _am_ an attractive man, according to that fucking auctioneer.”

To his surprise, Rick actually laughed, tossing his head back against his headrest. “Well, he wasn’t wrong,” Rick managed, “but I think I can manage to be a gentleman.”

Daryl huffed, turning his face away to hide his mildly embarrassed flush. “You’d better. I’d cut your balls off.”

Rick hummed in reply. “Duly noted. I’m very attached to them.” Apparently still in a playful mood, Rick gave him a teasing glance. “What if I _were_ kidnapping you, though?”

Daryl snorted. “I’d have to tell you that my owner is apparently a scary motherfucker who’d make your life hell, so you might as well take me back.”

Rick’s smile faded a bit. “Fair enough.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Rolling his shoulders, Daryl stared out the window. The streets and surrounding woods weren’t as well-maintained out here, with cracks and potholes popping up in the pavement. Abruptly, Daryl sat up straight and leaned forward, looking around.

 _The fuck?_ These roads were familiar. The wear and tear, the crappy houses leaning up against the shoulder of the road… Slowly, Daryl turned to face Rick.

“Are you taking me _home?_ ” he asked incredulously. Rick gave him a cautious smile.

“Surprise?”

The hesitance in Rick’s tone wasn’t lost on Daryl as he looked around, taking in the familiar landscape as they entered Daryl’s poor excuse for a town. It was still early enough that no one was out and about. Working people weren’t up yet, and the drunks had long since crashed. Daryl supposed that the farmers would be up, but they were all on the outskirts of the town, and they’d be sticking to their own properties for the moment. Suddenly, Rick’s bland choice of car made sense, though it was misguided. In Daryl’s town, any car that wasn’t fifteen years old or covered in dust was going to stand out. A strange pang of melancholy struck him in his chest. He’d hated living here. He’d hated every second of it.

But it was still home.

Daryl remained silent as they rounded the last bend and pulled up in front of his dilapidated home. Strangely, despite his long absence, the tiny lawn hadn’t grown out any, and his windows seemed to be intact. Across the street, a drunk skinhead was sprawled on his neighbor’s porch, his limp fingers dangling above a dropped bottle. Daryl ignored him and frowned at his house, eyeing the old gutters. If anything, the roof looked like it had been touched up while he was gone. When Rick gently put the car in park, Daryl gave him a narrow-eyed glance and unbuckled his seatbelt. Without a word, he climbed out of the car, ignoring the sound of the engine cutting. He walked across the recently mowed lawn and headed for one of the windows.

 _Ain’t no way they should be unbroken,_ he thought bemusedly. _Some jackass should’ve tried to break in. How…?_

When he reached out to touch the glass, it shimmered faintly. A protective layer? Startled, he glanced over his shoulder at Rick, who had gotten out of the car and was now standing next to it, watching him carefully.

“I took steps to make sure your house remained intact,” Rick quietly answered his unspoken question. “Some special sealant for the windows, minor repair work…I even have the lights on a timer, just in case.”

Daryl stared at him, then cleared his throat. “You do this for everyone?”

Rick nodded sharply. “Everyone. Their assets come to me, and I make sure they stay as untouched as I can make them.”

Daryl’s heart clenched. “My stuff’s still in here?”

Rick gave him a sad smile. “Every bit of it.”

Taking a deep breath, Daryl walked up to his front door. Rick cleared his throat behind him, and when Daryl turned to face him, the nobleman tossed him a key. Daryl stared at it for a long moment, then turned and slipped it into the lock. It turned with only a token resistance, and the door swung open. The smell that hit his nose was a bit musty, but not as bad as it should have been. Hell, it had probably smelled even _worse_ when Daryl was arrested. He stepped inside, looking around at his old, ratty couch with its lopsided but outrageously comfy cushions, the table scarred with cigarette burns when he was too lazy to find a cup or an ashtray, and the ancient TV he’d found and repaired on his own years ago. The worn, striped wallpaper was still trying to peel itself free at the ceiling, though it looked like someone had recently tried to fix that. A knot tied itself in Daryl’s throat, and he turned to look at Rick, who was hovering in the doorway.

“If you want to bring anything back with you, you’re free to,” the nobleman told him quietly. “Everything else is being protected.”

Daryl nodded silently, unable to speak. After a brief hesitation, he headed for his bedroom. Squatting on the floor beside the bed, he shoved his hand under the mattress. Cool metal touched his fingertips, and he closed his eyes in relief. He pulled it out, looking at the thin silver chain as it glinted in the early morning light. A tiny pendant hung at the bottom of it, twisting and turning in the air. The little brass wings looked the same as they did when his mother, during one of her brief moments of lucidity, had given it to him ten years ago. At the time, he’d thought that a pair of angel wings around his neck would be far more trouble than they were worth, and he’d stashed the necklace away. Flattening his lips, he slipped the chain over his neck and tucked the pendant out of sight beneath his shirt.

He rose to his feet and strode out of his bedroom, refusing to look at anything else. Rick gave him an inquiring glance, but Daryl simply shook his head. He did _not_ want to talk about it. The redneck turned towards his front door with every intention of leaving, but he came to a stop beside Rick. Frowning, he turned towards the nobleman.

“I can take anything?”

Rick blinked at him, then nodded. “Anything you want.”

Daryl gave him a once-over. “Even a weapon?”

Surprisingly, Rick smiled. “Your crossbow, you mean? Of course.”

Daryl flinched. “How’d you—” His eyes narrowed. “Is that why you brought me here?”

Rick’s smile vanished. “I want you to have whatever you need to make yourself comfortable, Daryl. If it’s nothing, that’s fine. If it’s a couple of mementos, that’s still fine. If it’s an entire arsenal, that’s fine, too.”

Taking a deep breath, Daryl pushed his instinctive anger down. _Rick’s trying to do you a favor, dipshit_ , he reminded himself sternly. _Stop looking a gift horse in the fucking mouth._

Wordlessly, Daryl moved to the tiny space next to the back door that he’d affectionately called his mud room. He opened the cabinet next to it. Despite himself, he smiled. His crossbow hung in the same place it’d been in when he left, clearly undisturbed judging by the sheen of dust littering its black surface. He plucked it off its hook and swung it onto his back, then grabbed his quiver full of arrows. Once he slipped that on, he felt some coiled muscles in his back relax, as if a piece of himself had slotted back into place. He turned and gave Rick a genuine smile.

“Thanks, man.” He shifted the weight on his back, dropping his eyes. “I, uh. I won’t make you regret it.”

Rick raised his eyebrows. “Regret what?”

Daryl shrugged. “Armin’ me?”

Rick snorted loudly. “It would be stupid of me not to.” A gentle, teasing smile settled on his face. “And besides, I figure you wouldn’t let me regret it for long.”

Daryl tried to smile back, but his eyebrows furrowed. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t…I _wouldn’t_ , Rick. I’m not turning on you.”

Rick’s smiled faded once more, and he gave Daryl a slow, solemn nod. “Thank you.”

Daryl bobbed his head. Ready to get away from all of the emotion he’d faced, he stepped around Rick and made his way to the front door. Rick followed along silently behind him. The nobleman waited on the grass as Daryl locked up the front door, and he shook his head when Daryl tried to offer him the key back.

“Keep it. It’s yours,” Rick stated gruffly. He turned and climbed into the car. Daryl’s fingers curled protectively over the key, and he followed suit, tossing his crossbow and his arrows into the back seat. He glanced at it, then back at his house. His mother’s necklace hung heavy on his chest. Turning to Rick, he tried to speak, but his throat closed. Rick gave him a brief glance, then smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Daryl nodded, remaining silent as Rick started the car and pulled away from his home.

* * *

 

Moments after the sedan drove away, the unremarkable skinhead across the street slowly sat up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap cell phone, its frame cracked and worn from use. He dialed a number quickly, then shoved the phone up against his tattooed ear. A grouchy voice picked up after three rings.

"You'd better be calling for a good reason at this hour, fuckhead," the voice snarled. The skinhead swallowed and shook his head.

"Boss, trust me, you wanna know 'bout this. You won' believe what I just saw."

"The fuck did you see?"

The skinhead leaned over, hiding his lips from anyone who might be looking. His eyes followed the sedan.

"Boss, I saw your brother. He's been _bought_."


End file.
